The Journey

Born intoFaith

My story begins not with triumph, but with roots buried in humble soil, roots that shaped who I am today and planted the seeds of faith I would come to rely on through life’s greatest challenges. My father was a man of conviction, born into a life of poverty but rich in his devotion to God. He rose from the ashes of hardship, answering the call to serve as a Pastor despite the pressures and burdens that came with it. In contrast, my mother grew up surrounded by comfort and security, but she and the members of a family aligned with a different religious group from my father. Yet even in her home of plenty, she carried the scars of emotional wounds born from a past where expectations often bind with love.

When they came together, my parents defeated the odds. Their union was not met with open arms; my mother’s family looked down on my father’s humble beginnings, disapproving of their marriage. Yet they stood firm, bound by love and faith, determined to build a life together. They raised five children in a small, imperfect home shaped by both struggles and dreams. Of our five siblings, only three remain today. Loss has been a companion in our journey, another thread woven into the fabric of who we are.

Being a pastor’s kid was both a privilege and a cross to bear. From the outside, it might have appeared that we lived an exemplary Christian life. My father, a man devoted to spreading God’s Word, commanded respect in the pulpit. My mother, with her strong-willed character, was the backbone of our household. Yet behind closed doors, the reality was far more complex. The weight of expectations hung heavy over us, like a shadow we could never outrun.

We were the children of a man whose family was once mocked for their poverty, always under the watchful eyes of others. Relatives on my mother’s side measured us against our wealthier cousins, and their cruelty lingered in their words and actions. We were "less than" in their eyes, belittled by circumstances beyond our control. I can still hear their taunts, the way they dismissed my father’s family. Those words left scars, invisible but enduring.

Inside our home, the pressure to prove ourselves was relentless. My mother, shaped by her own history, wielded her frustrations with sharp words, often letting her anger spill over in ways that were difficult to bear. My father, though a Pastor by calling, carried his own burdens and insecurities. He compared us to our cousins, unknowingly adding fuel to the fire of our struggles. "Be the best," he would say. "Show them what you’re capable of." And so, I strive not out of joy, but out of a desperate need to be acknowledged.

I became the picture of perfection at the top of my class, hardworking, disciplined, and unyielding. I was known for my intelligence, but also for my aloofness. People found me "hard to approach," even intimidating at times. They didn’t see the girl who silently bore the weight of rejection and the unspoken need to prove that I was worthy…not just in the eyes of others, but in my own.

Looking back, I see how much of my life was shaped by these early experiences. The need to compete, to excel, to wear strength like a badge of honor. It all stemmed from those formative years. Yet amid the struggles and the wounds, something remarkable happened: the seeds of faith were planted. It was in the small moments, the times when my father’s prayers echoed through the house, or when my mother clung to her faith, even in frustration, that I began to understand the quiet power of God’s presence.

And so, I carried these seeds of faith with me, tucked away in the depths of my heart. They would grow in time, though not without struggle, and they would come to define my story in ways I could never have imagined.