It took me twenty-two years to get here.
Twenty-two long years. Of crying out to God in the dark. Of trying to find pieces of myself in a world that never looked the same again. Twenty-two years of fighting for this exact moment. A moment of victory!
On May 13, 2003, everything changed. That’s the day of the fire. The day my body was burned and my childhood ended. Nothing would be the same again. The day my family’s world was flipped upside down. The day my parents almost lost their baby girl. I was four.. innocent and pure. Too little to think the world could be painful, invincible.
But from that day forward, I carried not just physical scars, but emotional and spiritual ones too. Pain that couldnt be explained or needed to be experienced to understand.
Yet today, I see those scars as proof of God's faithfulness. Proof that I survived. That I endured. That I was held. The scars are a blessing for they show a physical reminder of the anointing God has placed on my life. They are the thing I love most about my body.
I’ve got the scars to prove it happened—but they also prove I didn’t die.
They prove I fought.
They prove God never let go.
They prove that God's army is stronger than Satan's fire.
This year, on May 13, 2025, I stood in a room of 44 ministry graduates, celebrating their freedom, while quietly reclaiming mine. I wore a dress—for the first time on this date since I was four. That may not sound like much to some people. But for me, it was everything. For me it was claiming my victory and telling the enemy that he NO LONGER can have this day.
There were years I couldn’t even wear a dress at all. Years I couldn't hear the crackle of fire without shaking. Couldn’t smell smoke without feeling like I was back in that moment.
Panic attacks. Flashbacks. Nightmares.
From four years old to at least fifteen, I lived with undiagnosed PTSD. And I was drowning silently in it. I turned to self harm to numb my pain because if I could control it, it felt better. I didn't tell anyone I was struggling with this. Because, "isn't that a war thing?" I didn't want to be labeled crazy. I didn't want people to see that I wasn't strong. So I suffered in silence. I allowed the enemy to win for so many years.
But this year… I took something back. The last thing.
Not only did I wear a dress on this day—but I did something even more unexpected.
I blew out a candle.
That might seem small to some, maybe even insignificant. But for me, on this day, it was a Grand Canyon-sized leap of faith. It was bold. Brave. Sacred.
I held that candle in my hand, whispered a quiet thank you to God, and then I blew it out.
That simple act became a symbol of final freedom. A moment of victory.
I hadn’t planned on the candle. But I felt it—deep in my spirit—God asking me to take one more step. To drive the final nail into the fear that had followed me for so long.
And I did.
Driving to church that night, I blasted Get Behind Me by Emerson Day. And when I heard the line, “You’re stuck under my blood-bought boots,” I lost it. Tears just started falling. Because it hit me—I’m not stuck anymore. The enemy lost. The enemy is stuck. That day in 2003, he tried to take me out. He came hard and fast, because he knew something was coming. Something good. Something holy. But here’s the truth: he can’t steal what God has already claimed. He can't take the destiny of a child God already annointed from the beginning.
And then during worship, we sang We Praise You. I didn’t know the setlist. I didn’t plan it. But that song? It wrecked me in the best way.
“This is what freedom feels like.”
That’s it. That’s what I felt. Not perfection. Not absence of pain. But freedom. Real, raw freedom. For the first time in twenty two years, I felt no pain, no shame, nothing negative on this day!
I wore a dress.
I blew out a candle.
I let people see my scars.
I stopped hiding.
And I did it all on that day—the day I thought would always haunt me.
The day is no longer a day that marks my trauma. But it is a day that marks my anointing. That marks my baptism by fire. That marks my transformation!
To the one still stuck in the middle of it, still waiting for the courage to come: I see you. I was you. And in many ways I am still you. And I swear to you—it won’t always feel like this. It won't always hurt like this. It won't always be like this.
God hasn’t forgotten you. He hasn’t let go. You’ll rise again.
It takes time. Sometimes it takes a lifetime.
But healing is possible. And healing is coming.
Your day will come.
You’ll wear the dress.
You’ll blow out the candle.
You’ll show your scars and realize—they’re not signs of shame. They’re signs of survival.
Don’t stop fighting. You’re worth the breakthrough. YOU, yes you, are worth it.
