Restored by grace

FLICKERS OF HOPE

The days following her first therapy session were a strange mix of heaviness and relief. Each morning, Nandi woke up with the weight of her struggles still pressing on her chest, but there was also the faintest sense of possibility, like a c***k of light breaking through the darkness.

She followed the therapist’s suggestion of journaling her thoughts, though it felt awkward at first. Words stumbled onto the page in fragments—raw and incomplete, but it was better than keeping everything locked inside.

In one entry, she wrote:

"I’ve been living in survival mode for so long that I don’t know how to simply be. Therapy is scary, but maybe this is what I need. Maybe this is the start of something different."

Her second therapy session came sooner than she expected.

---

The counseling center felt a little less intimidating this time. Nandi found herself noticing the details she had overlooked before: the soft hum of the air conditioning, the faint scent of lavender that seemed to linger in the hallways.

Mrs. Tembo greeted her with the same warm smile, and Nandi settled into the chair that was beginning to feel familiar.

“How was your week, Nandi?”

“It was... okay, I guess,” Nandi replied hesitantly. “I’ve been trying to journal like you suggested.”

“That’s great to hear,” Mrs. Tembo said, her tone encouraging. “How did it feel to put your thoughts on paper?”

“A little weird at first,” Nandi admitted, “but also... freeing? Like I could let out things I didn’t even realize I was holding onto.”

“That’s exactly the point,” Mrs. Tembo said with a nod. “Journaling can be a powerful tool for processing emotions. Did anything come up that you’d like to talk about today?”

Nandi hesitated, her fingers twisting in her lap. “I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about my family. About how much I wish things were different.”

“Different how?”

“Better,” Nandi said, her voice cracking. “I wish my dad wasn’t... the way he is. I wish my mom didn’t hate me. I wish we could be... normal.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she brushed them away quickly, embarrassed.

“It’s okay to feel that way,” Mrs. Tembo said gently. “Wishing for something better doesn’t mean you don’t care about your family. It just means you recognize that what you’re experiencing isn’t healthy.”

They spent the session unpacking her feelings about her parents. Nandi shared memories she had buried for years: her father stumbling into the house late at night, reeking of alcohol; her mother’s sharp words that cut deeper than she wanted to admit.

“Do you ever feel responsible for their behavior?” Mrs. Tembo asked at one point.

Nandi froze, the question hitting closer to home than she expected. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “Like maybe if I were better—smarter, more obedient—they wouldn’t fight so much. Maybe my mom wouldn’t hate me.”

“Nandi, what you’re describing is a common reaction for children who grow up in difficult environments,” Mrs. Tembo explained. “But I want you to know something very important: their behavior is not your fault. You didn’t cause it, and it’s not your job to fix it.”

Those words stayed with Nandi long after the session ended.

---

Later that evening, she sat on her bed with her Bible open, searching for something—comfort, guidance, anything to quiet the storm inside her. Her eyes landed on Isaiah 41:10:

"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

She read the verse aloud, her voice trembling. “I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

A tear slipped down her cheek as she whispered, “God, if You’re really there... if You really care, please help me believe this.”

---

The next therapy session was different.

Mrs. Tembo introduced Nandi to a grounding exercise, explaining how it could help during moments of anxiety.

“Let’s try it now,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “I want you to name five things you can see in this room.”

Nandi glanced around, feeling self-conscious. “The clock on the wall. The plant by the window. The books on the shelf. Your pen. The painting above your desk.”

“Good,” Mrs. Tembo said with a smile. “Now four things you can touch.”

“My chair,” Nandi said, running her hand along the armrest. “My bag. The edge of the table. My jeans.”

“Three things you can hear.”

“The clock ticking. Your voice. The air conditioning.”

“Two things you can smell.”

Nandi hesitated, then said, “The lavender scent in here... and maybe my lotion?”

“And finally, one thing you can taste.”

“My gum,” Nandi said, smiling faintly.

“How do you feel now?”

“Better,” Nandi admitted. “Calmer.”

“That’s the idea,” Mrs. Tembo said. “Grounding exercises help you focus on the present moment. When your mind starts to spiral, you can use this technique to bring yourself back to now.”

Nandi nodded, filing the exercise away as something she could try on her own.

As the weeks passed, therapy became a safe space for Nandi—a place where she could be honest without fear of judgment. She began to uncover layers of herself she had hidden for so long, and though it was painful, it was also freeing.

Her journaling evolved into prayers, short and hesitant at first but growing in depth and sincerity. She found herself returning to the Bible more frequently, seeking the comfort and wisdom it offered.

One night, she wrote in her journal:

"I don’t know where this journey will take me, but I’m starting to believe that healing is possible. Maybe, just maybe, there’s hope for me after all."

As Nandi walked into her next therapy session, she felt a small but undeniable shift within her. The darkness wasn’t gone, but it didn’t feel as suffocating as before. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to believe in the possibility of something better.

This was just the beginning of her journey, but it was a step—a flicker of hope in the midst of her brokenness. And that, she realized, was enough to keep going.