Girl Kaleidoscope

Tag: Healing

  • The Love That Ruined Me

    They say you never forget your first love.

    I wish they were wrong.

    It would be easier to move through the world untouched by the memory of you, unmarked by the love we shared, free of the knowing. But I am not free. I am wrecked, ruined, rewritten by a love so deep, so consuming, that it still burns beneath my skin, long after you have gone.

    You were my soulmate. And I was yours.

    I don’t say that lightly. I don’t say that in wistful nostalgia, looking back through rose-colored glass. I say it with the weight of every whispered moment, every stolen glance, every aching hour spent waiting for the moment we could be alone. The way our souls moved in rhythm, finding each other across crowded rooms, through the cacophony of obligations and expectations.

    I gave you everything. And for so long, I believed you would give me everything in return.

    I waited. I hoped. I prayed.

    I stood at the edge of our love with my hands outstretched, waiting for you to take them, to pull me into forever. To say, You are mine, and I am yours, and I will choose you, no matter what it takes.

    But you never did.

    Instead, we lived in the liminal space between what we were and what we were allowed to be. Sneaking kisses under the moon when no one was watching. Walking just a little too far ahead of the others on group trips, letting our fingers brush, our hearts race. Speaking in code, in glances, in the language of longing that only we understood.

    You met my family. I met yours. We fit. Perfectly. Seamlessly.

    And yet, we were never allowed to fit.

    There were always eyes. Always whispers. Always the unspoken but ever-present expectations—never be seen alone, never step outside the bounds, never tarnish the name of the mission, never bring shame. They said it was about honor, about wisdom, about protecting reputations. But it felt like chains.

    If we had been anywhere else in the world, we would have dated like normal people. We would have sat across from each other in coffee shops, taken long drives with no destination, spent lazy afternoons wrapped in each other’s arms without guilt.

    And maybe, in that world, you would have chosen me.

    But we weren’t in that world.

    We were in this one.

    And in this world, you couldn’t make the same sacrifices for me that I made for you.

    I have tried to tell myself that I understand. That it wasn’t personal. That it wasn’t because I wasn’t enough, or because you didn’t love me with the same ferocity that I loved you. But deep down, I don’t believe that.

    Because I know what I gave. I know what I lost. I know how many times I reached across the void, sent my signals into the night, hoping you would see them, hoping you would answer.

    You never did.

    And now, I watch you live the life that should have been ours. With her.

    I tell myself not to look. Not to check. Not to see.

    But how do you not look at the wreckage of your soul?

    How do you not feel the ripples of a love so deep that even now, even after everything, a part of you is still waiting for him to reach back?

    Even just for friendship.

    Even though you know, deep down, that would never be enough.

    Because it was never meant to end this way.

    You were my first love. I was yours. And you don’t ever forget your first.

    I have tried to untangle myself from the clutches of this grief. I have tried to bury it, to smother it, to tell myself that I have moved on.

    But my body remembers.It remembers the way your hands traced the curve of my back, the way your breath warmed my skin on quiet nights beneath the stars. It remembers the safety of your arms, the rhythm of your heartbeat against mine, the way you whispered my name like it was a prayer.

    And so it betrays me.

    With every full moon, I am back in your embrace, bathed in silver light, swaying to the music of the night.

    With every wave that glistens under the sun, I remember the way your eyes caught the light, the way your laughter rippled through the air, bright and golden.

    With every rainfall, I am transported to the nights we stood together, soaked and laughing, the world around us fading as we clung to each other.

    Even as I long to forget, my body refuses.

    It keeps you alive in the scent of damp earth, in the brush of wind against my cheek, in the bloom of every flower that dares to exist in a world without you.

    And so I grieve.

    Not just for what was, but for what will always be—the love that ruined me, the love that still lingers, the love that even now, I am not sure I want to let go.

  • The Fairytale

    In the mission field, love was never a quiet thing. It had to be declared, announced, and sanctioned by the watching world. You couldn’t simply love someone in peace. No, in the Christian bubble, every courtship came with rules: doors left ajar, group dates, older, married Christians serving as chaperones, and the constant hum of approval—or disapproval—from the community.

    When a couple decided to date, it wasn’t a private exchange of words. It was an official proclamation, a declaration of intent that wasn’t just about getting to know each other but about preparing for marriage. The announcement turned heads and opened conversations. It solidified their relationship as a public venture, a parade of certainty. From that moment, everyone understood their trajectory: this wasn’t casual. They were moving toward a wedding, and everyone was invited to watch the show.

    I remember my friends’ glowing faces as they stepped into this process, radiating joy as their paths unfolded neatly before them. Their happiness was splashed across international publications, love stories chronicled with photographs against tropical backdrops, smiles brighter than the midday sun. I wanted to be happy for them—truly, I did—but every congratulations felt like a weight pressing down on my chest. Because after the applause for them came the sideways glance at me, and the question I grew to dread: When is it your turn?

    Their love stories were so… tidy. So precise. I envied their certainty. They moved with an intentionality I craved, a decisiveness that eluded me. My own love felt like a tangle of roots—deep and unyielding, but always caught on something unseen. I scoffed at the open doors and group dates, the announcements and the ceremonies of approval. But inside, I was unraveling. I wanted what they had.

    I had my wedding planned, of course. Not in reality, but in the soft corners of my mind, where the months of the year stretch and shrink and my future looped around itself like an infinite thread. I knew the names of my children, their personalities already alive in my imagination. I had my guest list drafted, the speeches half-written. I wasn’t just in love; I was living our future before it could take shape.

    But we were two worlds trying to find a middle ground. His love was rooted in this place—its harsh roads, its endless needs, its deep calls for his presence. My love was a yearning to be chosen above all of that, to be the one thing he couldn’t live without. Each day felt like a balancing act, an attempt to bridge the gap between us while the land itself seemed to widen it.

    And then came the moment I gave him an ultimatum: me or PNG. I thought I was drawing a line that would bring clarity, but instead, I drew a line that broke us apart. He chose PNG.

    It’s a strange thing, heartbreak. It doesn’t just pierce you once; it echoes. It reverberates. For years, I sent messages into the void, desperate to reach across the chasm I had created. Each day of silence was another crack in the foundation of my heart. I never blamed him—how could I? He was perfect. But I resented the world that had made me feel so small, the people who watched and judged, the women who followed the rules and got their perfect endings.

    Looking back, I see how much I was shaped by purity culture, by the relentless pressure to conform, to be good enough, to fit into a mold that wasn’t made for me. The open-door fairytales were beautiful, but they were also stifling, their perfection a knife to my gut.

    The lesson? Perhaps it’s that love, real love, doesn’t need an audience. It doesn’t need announcements or approval. And yet, it’s also not enough to ignore the differences that divide us. Sometimes, love burns brightly in the tension between two worlds, but it can’t always survive the heat.I still hold onto those dreams— the reminders of a future that could have been, a love that once was. And maybe, just maybe, they’re proof that even in the messiness, even in the heartbreak, the story was worth living.

  • A heart left in PNG

    There’s a beauty to life on the mission field that defies words. It is not found in the obvious, but in the quiet, sacred moments that linger like a melody. It is the kindness of strangers who appear when you least expect it, arms full of gifts from their gardens—a bunch of bananas, a fresh pineapple, a smile that reaches their eyes. It is the shared silence over a pot of kaukau, the quiet prayers spoken in unity under a blanket of stars, and the rustling of the wind through tall grass as if the earth itself is breathing alongside you.

    In Papua New Guinea, joy wears a different face. It is a choir in perfect harmony on a church lawn, voices rising and falling in a hymn that carries your soul somewhere beyond yourself. It is the riot of flowers along the roadside – lupines laying out welcome mats at the foot of mountains and frangipani spilling their perfume into the humid air. It is the adventure of traveling to hidden places, untouched by the heavy hand of progress, where lakes gleam like glass and mountains stand as sentinels to a simpler, purer world.

    Life there is steeped in depth and creativity, born of necessity. There are no quick fixes, no dashes to the store when the eggs run out. Instead, there is the art of making do or doing without—kneading dough by hand, stitching torn fabric, or crafting beauty from what is at hand. The slow rhythm of this life teaches patience and gratitude in a way that no sermon ever could.

    But there is another side to this life, one that comes with its own burdens. In PNG, my white skin attracted a kind of celebrity I never asked for. It brought curious stares, unspoken assumptions, and a weight of expectation that made solitude both a blessing and a curse. There were days I felt like an alien, isolated by my otherness, even as I worked to belong. Yet, even “home”, my otherness continues to separate me.

    Repatriation is a strange and silent grief. For many returning missionaries, the pain of leaving the field is like losing a part of themselves. Often, it comes without choice—due to health concerns, immigration issues, or even a global pandemic. Other times, it is voluntary, but even then, the grief clings to you. The bustling, convenient modern world feels sterile in comparison. Shopping malls, with their bright lights and endless choices, seem filled with people wandering aimlessly, unaware that another world lives inside of you.

    In this new life, fast food replaces slow, intentional meals, and busyness fills every corner of existence. Yet my heart often longs for the simplicity of the mission field, where life was stripped bare and real, where every day carried purpose and where relationships held weight and meaning.

    Coming “home” is never just a return; it is an ache, a fracture, a longing for what was left behind. It is stepping into a world of privilege and distraction while carrying the weight of everything you have seen, heard, and felt. I look around at my life now, at the conveniences and comforts, and I feel both grateful and hollow.

    The grief of leaving PNG has made me more intentional in my relationships. I treasure the time I spend with family and friends, aware that life in this world is fleeting and fragmented. Yet, there are days I wonder if my heart will ever truly return from PNG. It feels as though I left it there, tucked beneath the hills, washed in the rushing mountain springs, or carried away in the chorus of an early morning lotu.

    Life on the mission field changes you. It strips away the trivial and teaches you what it means to live with both hands open—to give, to love, and to trust in a way that feels almost impossible now. And though I wrestle with grief, though the weight of returning feels insurmountable some days, I cling to the hope that this loss has a purpose. That even in the aching, I am being refined.

    For those of us who have left the field, it’s important to name the grief and acknowledge its depth. To be kind to ourselves in this season of in-between. To know that our hearts, though fractured, still beat with purpose. And to trust that God, who called us to these places and experiences, is still working all things for good—even when we feel like pieces of ourselves remain scattered across the world.I

    may never retrieve the part of my heart that remains in PNG. Perhaps I’m not meant to. Not yet. Perhaps it is a reminder of the sacredness of the life I lived there—a life that taught me the truest meaning of beauty, creativity, and love. And in the end, perhaps that is enough.

  • Mail Order Bride

    At first glance, it seemed like a story of purpose and calling—a young woman, eager to serve, stepping into the mission field with hopes of making a difference. But beneath the surface, there was a far more painful truth: she wasn’t chosen for her creativity, her passion, or her ability to connect with others. She was chosen because of what someone else imagined her to be, not for who she truly was. She was recruited because she was single and someone saw her as a match for another missionary already in the field.

    From the start, something didn’t sit right. There was an unspoken tension in the air that she couldn’t quite place. People told her, with confident smiles, that she was needed, that she would make a difference, but her instincts told her otherwise. Still, against her better judgment, she agreed, believing she was called for her own gifts, her own heart, her own purpose.

    When she arrived, everything felt out of place. The land itself—raw, untamed—seemed to press against her, every sound and smell, every sight, unfamiliar and abrasive. And the people? Well, some were kind, but many others turned away from her, making her feel like an outsider in the very place she was supposed to call home. The weight of judgment was unrelenting, and the sense of isolation clung to her like a shadow.

    But then, there was love. A love so deep, so intoxicating, that it pulled her in, despite her misgivings. He was steady, grounded in the land that felt foreign to her. She was restless, free-spirited, yearning for something beyond the confines of this harsh reality. Together, they created a world in the cracks of time—moments stolen under the stars, laughter shared in secret places. She felt seen, truly seen, and in those moments, she became someone more than she ever thought possible. The creativity that flowed through her was like a river, untouched and pure, brought to life by the way he loved her. It was as if the world fell away, and she was finally home, at least for a moment.

    But love, as all-consuming as it was, couldn’t undo the reality that they were two people bound to different worlds. She couldn’t stay in a place that felt suffocating, where every part of her soul screamed to escape. He couldn’t leave behind the life he had built, the land that had shaped him. No matter how deeply they loved each other, no matter how desperately they tried to make it work, the divide between them was too wide to bridge.

    And then, the truth—the truth she hadn’t known, or refused to see—came crashing down. She wasn’t there for her gifts or her talents. She wasn’t there to serve, to contribute, to make a difference. She had been brought there because someone saw her as a partner, a potential wife for someone else. Her hesitations had been brushed off, her doubts dismissed. She had been cast into a role that was never hers to play.

    The weight of that betrayal broke her, and the loss of the love they had built only made the wound deeper. She had trusted, had poured herself into something that was never meant to be hers. Her creativity, her passion, her desire to make a difference—all of it had been secondary to someone else’s plan.

    Even now, years later, she still feels the sting of that realization. She can’t escape the bitterness, the knowledge that she was never valued for who she truly was. She was never given the chance to shine on her own terms. The love they shared, as beautiful and as transformative as it was, will always be tainted by the deceit that led her to that place in the first place.

    For those who support missionaries, there is a lesson in her story. Don’t play matchmaker. Don’t reduce someone to a pawn in your idea of what their life should be. Don’t let your desire for control overshadow their individuality, their agency. The damage this kind of manipulation causes isn’t just a matter of broken relationships—it’s a matter of shattered dreams, of people left questioning their worth, wondering if they were ever truly seen.

    Her heart still carries the weight of what could have been, the love that might have been enough if only the world had been kinder. She is grateful for the love they shared, for the way it made her feel alive, but the wound of betrayal will always remain, a scar she will carry for the rest of her life. Her story is one of loss—not just of love, but of the parts of herself that were never allowed to flourish.

    For anyone sending people into the mission field, remember this: they are not mere instruments to fill roles or meet expectations. They are people with their own passions, their own purposes, and their own worth. Don’t try to control their story. Let them write it for themselves, because the cost of doing otherwise is far too high.

  • When the story must be told

    “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’” — C.S. Lewis

    I still hesitate before pressing “publish.”

    Even after all this time, after all these words spilled across pages and screens, the act of telling my story still catches in my throat. I hesitate—not because I don’t want to tell it, but because I know what happens when I do.

    I know the quiet messages that will slip into my inbox, the ones that say, “I saw myself in your words.” I know the relief, the resonance, the unexpected companionship that comes from someone else recognising their own battle scars in my own. And I know the ones who will say nothing, but will sit with my words in their hands, weighing them carefully, deciding what to do with them.

    And I know the ones who will turn away.

    I have lost friendships to my honesty. And I have kept friendships by withholding it. By making my stories palatable, neat enough to be consumed without discomfort. I have shaped my words to be just raw enough to be heard, but not so raw that they wound.

    Because what happens when you tell the truth?

    What happens when you stop only speaking of the sunsets over the valley, the church choirs harmonising under the trees, the joy of seeing light dawn in someone’s eyes? When you stop telling only the beautiful parts of mission life and begin to talk about the fractures beneath?

    What happens when you say: It was not always good. It was not always safe. And sometimes, the wounds came from the very people who should have held me close.

    What happens when you admit that you are still carrying bruises from the hands of people who called you sister? When you say that you loved deeply, but you were not always loved well? That you wanted to believe in your calling, but the weight of it sometimes crushed you? That you believed in sacrifice, but you didn’t know it would be your own heart on the altar?

    The risk of speaking is the risk of being unheard.

    And yet, I keep speaking.

    Because I am still waiting for the one voice that matters most to say, “I see you. I hear you. I’m sorry.”

    Because I am still waiting for the redemption of these stories.

    Or perhaps, I am still raging, and I am not quite redeemed yet.

    But maybe that is part of it, too. Maybe not every story is wrapped up in a tidy bow, ready to be tied off with a quiet, holy conclusion. Maybe some stories are still burning. Maybe some stories are still being written in the ashes.

    And maybe that’s okay.

    Because in the telling, there is movement. And in the movement, there is healing. And in the healing—slow, unsteady, incomplete—there is hope.

    So I will press “publish” again.

    And I will trust that somewhere, someone will read these words and whisper, “What! You too?”And in that moment, neither of us will be alone.

  • The light that calls me back

    It is easy, sometimes, to be swallowed by the dark. To let the weight of what was painful drown out the echoes of joy. But someone reminded me recently: do not forget the light. Do not forget the reason your heart still aches for the place you left behind, why you dream in the colors of the highlands, why you still whisper the names of friends into the quiet spaces of your prayers.

    PNG changes you. It does not leave you untouched. It presses into your spirit like rain into dry earth, reshaping you, flooding the cracks, making something new. And for all the hardship, for all the things that hurt, there was so much light.

    I remember the friendships that bloomed in that rugged, untamed land. The faces that met mine with warmth, with laughter, with hands that offered fruit and flowers and welcome. I remember stepping into homes made of woven walls and thatched roofs, where I was given the best seat, the first plate, the widest smile. Where hospitality was not measured by riches, but by the open-hearted way love was given, freely and without condition.

    And I remember God—how near He felt. How the mountains seemed to hum with His presence, how the rivers carried His voice, how the sunsets painted the sky with a glory too breathtaking to be coincidence.

    The work was hard, and the challenges relentless, but in the midst of it all, I felt held. Because what we did mattered. Because lives were being changed. Because in the eyes of the people we served, I saw something holy—something raw and real and closer to the heart of God than any church building could contain.

    I miss it. I miss the sky so wide it felt like eternity stretching open. I miss the dirt roads and the scent of burning wood and the way the rain came in sheets so thick the world disappeared. I miss the way creativity poured out of me there, how my soul felt awakened in a way I have never quite been able to replicate.

    PNG is not just a place. It is a transformation. It strips you down and builds you anew. It is where I was challenged and broken, but also where I was found. And though I left, though I had to walk away, it still calls me. The friendships, the beauty, the sense of purpose—I carry them with me, woven into the fabric of who I am.

    I will not forget the hard things. But neither will I forget the light. Because the light is what calls me back.