There is a painful irony in how suffering is often treated in Christian circles. Instead of being met with compassion, many who endure deep wounds are met with judgment, rushed expectations, and an almost casual dismissal of their grief. Rather than acknowledging the depths of someone’s pain, the response is often, “You just need to trust God more,” or, “You need to let go and move on.”
As if I—or you—chose this suffering.
As if we inflicted these wounds upon ourselves.
But we didn’t. These wounds were inflicted upon us. Someone else took away the future we were meant to step into, leaving behind grief and devastation. And yet, the responsibility to heal, to “overcome,” is placed squarely on our shoulders. We are told that our lingering pain is a sign of weak faith, that our sorrow is an indication of spiritual failure.
This is not just frustrating—it is harmful. It is a deep betrayal by those who should know better.
Imagine a person who has been physically injured by another. The wounds are not self-inflicted. They were harmed, perhaps violently, by someone else’s actions. No one would expect such a person to leap to their feet and walk without a limp. No one would shame them for needing crutches. And yet, when it comes to emotional and spiritual wounds, this is exactly what happens. Instead of being offered a place to rest and recover, we are pushed forward, expected to act as if the injury never happened.
The Bible does not teach this kind of cold dismissal. Jesus Himself did not treat suffering this way. He was moved by compassion when He saw the brokenhearted. He did not say to the weeping, “Ye of little faith.” Instead, He wept with them. He did not tell the suffering to “get over it.” He sat with them, touched them, healed them in His time. Even after His resurrection, His wounds remained visible. He carried the scars of suffering with Him—proof that healing does not mean erasing what has happened.
So why do so many Christians behave otherwise? Why do they turn a blind eye to pain, assuming that if time has passed, healing should be complete? Why is it easier to tell someone to suppress their grief than to sit with them in it? Why is it so difficult for people to admit that some pain will always linger, that faith does not erase suffering, but rather sustains us through it?
I have struggled with this deeply. I have wanted to cry out my innocence, to prove my suffering, to explain in painstaking detail why I am not at fault. I have wanted to defend myself against those who assume that if I am still hurting, it must be my own doing. I have wanted to shout from the rooftops that I did not choose this, that this pain was not my doing, that I did not invite it into my life. And yet, I have been met with silence, or worse—accusations.
For all the talk of grace in Christian communities, there is often so little grace for those who suffer in a way that makes others uncomfortable. Grief is untidy. Trauma does not adhere to socially acceptable timeframes. Some wounds will never fully close, and that does not mean we lack faith—it means we are human. And if our faith is to mean anything, it must be one that allows for the fullness of our humanity, not just the palatable parts.
Perhaps it is time for a shift. Perhaps instead of judging how long it takes someone to heal, we should offer the space to grieve. Perhaps instead of demanding someone “move on,” we should sit beside them and ask, “What do you need today?” Perhaps instead of weaponizing faith as a tool to silence pain, we should embody the very compassion of Christ, who never turned away from the brokenhearted.
To those who have been told to “just get over it,” I see you. I hear you. You are not alone. And your suffering does not make you weak—it makes you real. And that is something even Jesus Himself understood.
Girl Kaleidoscope 