Help Me Believe

Chapter 6: Alone, But Not Abandoned

Journal Entry — Faith’s Diary

Dear Journal,

We left.

Not just the house. Not just the people. We left the cycle.

The cycle of silence. Of pretending. Of shrinking myself to fit into spaces that were never meant for me. The cycle of hoping someone would change, even when they kept showing me who they were. The cycle of giving too much and receiving too little. Of being drained, dismissed, and discarded.

I didn’t know how heavy everything had become until God showed me how to walk away.

From the man who disappeared—not just once, but in a thousand small ways before he finally left for good. From the friendships that drained me—smiles that came with strings, kindness that turned into control, loyalty that felt more like a leash. From the voices that told me I was never enough. That I was too emotional. Too soft. Too much. Or not enough of what they wanted.

It wasn’t dramatic. No shouting. No final show. Just a quiet decision. A whisper in my spirit that said, *“It’s time.”*

And I listened.

I packed what I could. I held my daughters close. I didn’t make announcements. I didn’t ask for permission. I just left. Not out of anger—but out of clarity. Out of obedience. Out of love for myself and the little girls who needed me whole.

I started praying again.

Not just when I was scared—but when I was still. When the house was quiet and the girls were asleep. When the ache in my chest wasn’t panic, but peace. I started reading the Word, even when I didn’t understand it all. Even when the verses felt distant. I kept reading. Kept showing up. Kept whispering, *“God, I’m here.”*

I started talking to Him like He was beside me. Because deep down, I knew He always had been. Even in the chaos. Even in the heartbreak. Even in the nights I cried myself to sleep and the mornings I woke up pretending I hadn’t.

The house feels different now.

Lighter. Safer. Holier.

There’s no shouting. No tension. No walking on eggshells. Just quiet mornings, soft laughter, and the sound of healing. The girls are laughing more. Sleeping better. Asking questions about God. I don’t always have the answers, but I tell them what I know: that He’s real, that He’s kind, and that He never left us.

I’m still healing.

Still learning how to trust. Still figuring out how to raise two daughters with grace and strength. Still unlearning the lies I was told about love, about worth, about what it means to be chosen.

But I’m not doing it alone.

God is here.

He’s in the quiet mornings. In the laughter of my children. In the peace that comes when I choose not to respond to chaos. In the strength that rises when I want to give up. In the softness that returns when I thought I’d hardened for good.

I used to think being alone meant being abandoned.

But now I know—sometimes God clears the room so you can hear Him better.

Sometimes He removes the noise so you can recognize His voice.

Sometimes He lets things fall apart so you can see what was never holding you together in the first place.

And I’m listening.

Not just with my ears—but with my heart. With my spirit. With the part of me that used to be numb and is now waking up.

I’m learning to rest. To breathe. To receive.

I’m learning that I don’t have to earn love. That I don’t have to perform for peace. That I don’t have to sacrifice myself to be accepted.

I’m learning that God’s love is not conditional. It doesn’t come and go. It doesn’t punish. It doesn’t manipulate. It doesn’t disappear when I’m broken.

It stays.

He stays.

And so do I.

I stay in the quiet. In the healing. In the truth. I stay in the presence of the One who saw me when I was hiding. Who heard me when I whispered prayers I didn’t believe. Who carried me when I couldn’t carry myself.

I don’t know what’s next.

I don’t know where this road leads. But I know who’s walking it with me.

And that’s enough.

Love,

Faith