N8tivegirl

Remembering Who You Were Before Fear

There is a version of you that existed before fear learned your name.

Before vigilance became instinct.

Before your body learned to brace itself.

Before trust felt like a gamble instead of a gift.

Remembering who you were before fear is not nostalgia.

It is a sacred, difficult process of shedding.

Shedding the layers you put on to survive.

The masks you learned to wear to feel safe.

The armor that kept you alive—but also kept you hidden.

For survivors, especially survivors of sexual violence, this remembering is not simple.

Something was taken that day—

not just safety,

but innocence, ease, and the unguarded way you once moved through the world.

You grieve a death no one else can see.

You mourn a version of yourself others never knew existed.

And because the loss is invisible, the grief often goes unacknowledged.

So you learn to keep your guard up.

You learn to read rooms instead of resting in them.

You learn to hold people at arm’s length because the enemy once came disguised as safe.

A wolf dressed like kindness.

A threat wrapped in familiarity.

And now fear whispers,

Stay alert.

Don’t trust too quickly.

Protect yourself at all costs.

Fear convinces you that everyone is a potential danger.

That closeness equals risk.

That vulnerability equals loss.

So you survive.

But survival comes with consequences.

You begin to treat people as disposable before they can discard you.

You mistake distance for control.

You confuse isolation with strength.

And somewhere along the way, you start blaming yourself—for what happened, for who you became, for who you’re no longer sure you are.

The rose-colored glasses you once wore are gone.

The world no longer feels soft.

And joy feels cautious—conditional.

Yet here is the truth fear never tells you:

You are not broken because you changed.

You adapted.

Your body learned how to protect you when no one else did.

Your mind learned how to survive unbearable reality.

Your spirit learned how to endure.

That is not weakness.

That is wisdom born from pain.

But awakening asks a different question now.

Not How do I survive?

But Who was I before fear taught me to hide?

Remembering does not mean returning to naivety.

It does not mean pretending the trauma never happened.

It means gently reclaiming what fear tried to erase.

Your laughter.

Your softness.

Your curiosity.

Your ability to feel deeply without apologizing.

It means learning—slowly, safely—that not everyone is your enemy.

That discernment is not the same as distrust.

That boundaries can exist without walls.

It means forgiving yourself for surviving the only way you knew how.

You are allowed to grieve what was lost.

You are allowed to name the theft.

You are allowed to take your time finding yourself again.

Awakening does not rush survivors.

It honors them.

And as you peel back the layers—one breath, one boundary, one brave moment at a time—you may discover this:

Fear shaped you,

but it does not define you.

The woman you were before fear is not gone.

She is waiting.

Patient.

Whole.

And when you are ready—

she will remember you, too.

A Benediction for the Woman Who Barely Made It Through

For the woman who survived the day

but didn’t feel victorious.

For the one who kept going

not because she was strong,

but because stopping felt impossible.

May you know this truth, even when you cannot feel it:

God has not forgotten you.

What looks unfinished is not ignored.

What feels unjust is not unseen.

What appears like loss today

is not the final word.

The Lord says, “Vengeance is Mine.”

Not because He is cruel—

but because you were never meant to carry the weight of justice alone.

Lay down the need to prove.

Lay down the urge to retaliate.

Lay down the quiet anger that keeps you awake at night.

God remembers every tear.

Every boundary you held instead of exploding.

Every moment you chose survival over revenge.

Every time you walked away instead of becoming what wounded you.

What does not look like victory now

will one day be revealed as mercy.

Not all justice is loud.

Not all healing is immediate.

Some victories unfold slowly,

like seeds planted in dark soil—

growing long before they break the surface.

So if today all you could do was breathe,

that was enough.

If all you could do was get out of bed,

that was faith.

If all you could do was resist becoming bitter,

that was courage.

May peace find you where explanation cannot.

May rest come without guilt.

May God do what only He can do—

redeem what you cannot fix,

defend what you cannot fight for,

and restore what you thought was lost forever.

You do not have to avenge yourself.

You do not have to rush your healing.

You do not have to see the outcome yet.

God remembers.

And because He remembers,

you are safe to keep becoming.

Amen.

An Invitation

If you are barely making it through,

this space is for you.

If you are tired of being strong,

if your faith feels quiet instead of confident,

if you’re still carrying questions God hasn’t answered yet—

you are welcome here.

You don’t have to have the words.

You don’t have to know what healing looks like.

You don’t have to forgive faster, believe harder, or be further along.

You only have to come as you are.

Let this be a place where you rest instead of perform.

Where survival is honored.

Where becoming is allowed to take time.

God sees what others overlooked.

He remembers what felt stolen.

And He is still writing the parts you cannot see yet.

If all you can do today is stay,

stay.

If all you can do is hope quietly,

hope.

If all you can do is whisper “help,”

that is enough.

You are not forgotten.

You are not finished.

And you are not alone.

Come sit here for a while.

You don’t have to rush your healing.