The Journey

Building Strength in the Storm

Growing up as a pastor's child brought joy and meaning to my life. It shielded me from the negative influences of the world, teaching me early on that I had to live with kindness and integrity, not just for myself but as a reflection of my family's faith. As a young child, I took pride in those moments when people praised us during church activities for our good behavior, a recognition that felt like a badge of honor for our family.

My father, having endured incredible struggles before marrying my mother—someone blessed with a more comfortable life—made it his mission to spare us, his children, from the hardships he faced. His words resonated deeply: “Good is not enough; you need to be the best to truly be good.” Those words became the foundation of how we lived our lives—always striving to excel, to perform, and to present ourselves in ways that would make our parents proud.

Yet, despite their noble intentions, there was an unspoken weight that grew within me—a feeling of being measured, compared, and expected to live up to standards set by others. While I know, in the depths of my heart, that my mother and father never meant to cause us pain, their unwavering pursuit of our success often overlooked one tender truth: the quiet ache of being compared to others and the feelings that come with it.

As their children, we were raised in the shadow of these struggles. My father’s burden to prove himself became ours. My mother’s frustrations and scars spilled into her parenting, creating an atmosphere where perfection felt mandatory, and failure was not an option. And from the outside, relatives on my mother’s side reinforced those expectations. They looked down on us, mocking my father’s poverty and our family’s perceived inadequacy. Every word, every dismissive gesture, seemed to say, “You’re not enough.”

Those moments weren’t just painful, they were formative. During our younger years, it seemed everything was good, but as I grew up something I carried it as it became my personality. I was forced to grapple with the sting of rejection from people who should have been family. When my cousins bullied and belittled us, I learned to swallow my hurt and turn it into fuel. If they thought we were less, I would make sure they had no choice but to see otherwise. If they doubted my father’s worth, I would prove that his children carried strength, intelligence, and resilience. I would show them.

School became my battlefield, and I fought every day to rise above the whispers of inferiority. Failure was never an option. I set my sights on excellence—not just to succeed, but to reclaim the dignity that rejection threatened to strip away. In every class, I worked tirelessly. In every examination, I aimed for the top. I wasn’t driven by ambition; I was driven by the ache to be acknowledged, to prove that the shadow of my father’s poverty had no power over me. And each moment of success—each award, each recognition—felt like a small victory. They couldn’t dismiss the girl who was first in her class, the one whose name echoed across the stage as her father stood proud beside her.

But while I excelled academically, something within me felt unsteady. The pressure of being the best—of carrying my family’s unspoken need to prove ourselves—was relentless. I rarely allowed myself to pause, to breathe, to feel the weight of what I was carrying. I wore strength as a mask, hiding the vulnerability I refused to show anyone. People saw me as "matalino," intelligent, driven, but often distant. They didn’t know that behind the success was a girl who longed to be loved without conditions—loved not for her accomplishments, but for who she truly was.

Amid this storm, God’s presence never wavered. Even when I didn’t fully recognize Him, He was there. In moments when the weight felt unbearable, He carried me in ways I didn’t yet understand. His wisdom whispered through the chaos, guiding me toward choices that would eventually shape my future. Looking back, I see His hand at every step—the quiet grace that kept me going, even when I didn’t realize how desperately I needed Him.

As I grew older, my father’s work in ministry began to speak to something deep within me. Watching him preach, seeing his unwavering commitment to God despite the challenges he faced—it stirred something I couldn’t ignore. I realized that, just as my father had been called to serve, God was calling me to follow a similar path. It wasn’t a moment of dramatic revelation; it was a quiet conviction that settled into my heart over time.

When the opportunity came to attend seminary, I knew it was my next step. But this decision wasn’t just about pursuing a career in ministry—it was about stepping into a calling that had been woven into my life since childhood. Seminary was more than a school; it was the beginning of a deeper journey—a journey into who God had always intended me to be.

Even as I stepped forward, I carried the echoes of my past—the rejection, the pressure, the wounds that had shaped me. But I carried something greater, too. God’s grace had planted seeds of strength in me through every trial, and those seeds were beginning to bloom. The storm had not broken me; it had built me. And though I couldn’t yet see the full scope of what lay ahead, I trusted that God had prepared me for it.