If My Pain can Help One Person, It was ALL Worth It!

That right there has become the anthem of my life: If my pain, my struggle, my suffering—if any of it can help even one person breathe a little easier, stand a little taller, or choose to stay one more day—then none of it was wasted. I would walk through it again. Every step. Every ache. Every unanswered question.

I know how that sounds. It sounds irrational… maybe even a little reckless. Why would anyone choose to see their suffering that way? Why would anyone be willing to carry pain with open hands instead of clenched fists? How could you endure someone horrific and painful but see joy and beauty instead?

But pain has a way of asking a question we can’t avoid: Will this break you… or will you let it become something that builds beyond you?

Most of the time, in the moment, it doesn’t feel meaningful at all. It feels endless. Heavy. Confusing. Tears fall without a seed to grow from those tears. There are seasons that don’t wrap up neatly, where healing feels delayed and clarity feels silent. I’ve lived there. If I’m honest, there are still places in my heart that are learning how to live there still today. And in those spaces, you don’t get the luxury of perspective—you just take the next breath and hope it’s enough. I have had seasons of my life where breathing is the ONLY thing I can do because it hurts so much and I am at the end of my rope.

But every once in a while, you’re given a glimpse. A moment where the curtain pulls back just enough to see that your pain didn’t echo into nothing. I was reminded of this moment recently and it brought my life back into perspective.

For me, that huge life perspective changing moment came in college.

I had the opportunity to speak at Storm Lake High School in Iowa—a rival school from back home, which made it all the more exciting and fun because who doesn't like to stir that pot. I was invited to speak to freshman life skills classes and then to the entire student body. To put it in perspective, my entire school district growing up had around 900 students… and this high school alone held about that many. I remember standing there, feeling both small and stretched—anxious, exposed, but deeply aware that I was there for a reason bigger than my comfort.

The topic was bullying to the freshman and my story to the entire school.

And that day, I didn’t just speak about it—I revisited it. I walked back through memories I would have rather left untouched. I spoke about the weight it carried, the confusion it created, and the ways it shaped how I saw myself and the world. I pour out my heart on how bullying has impacted my life even into my adult life (well I was 18 or 19 but still). Sitting there telling the students how much words can hurt more than physical bullying can hurt. It was one of the hardest days I’ve ever had speaking. Not because of the time, but because of the truth it required.

When it was over, I got in my car, drove back to campus, and stepped right back into normal life. I sat in my car for a moment and cried. I cried the stress away, I cried the heaviness away, I cried because it was a release. No applause followed me home. No visible proof that anything had changed. Just another day.

Until a week later.

There was a package waiting in my campus mailbox. Inside were handwritten notes—dozens of them—from students.

I sat there opening them one by one, and with every card, it felt like my heart was being cracked open in a new way. Completely shattered by the end of the reading.

“I was going to end my life, but now I have the strength to keep going and get help.”

“I was the bully… and I apologized to the people I hurt.”

“I’ve been harming myself, but I’m choosing to stop.”

"I never thought of it this way."

And so many more.

That moment didn’t just move me—it undid me.

Because suddenly, the fear I felt, the anxiety I carried, the vulnerability I didn’t want to step into… it all had a purpose. Eight hours of my life—just eight hours—shifted the trajectory of someone else’s story. Let that sink in.

As of today, April 25, 2026, I am 27 years, 3 months, and 3 days old. That’s about 9,955 days. Over 14 million minutes of life. And yet, a tiny fraction of that time—barely a breath in the grand scope of it—became a turning point for someone else. That realization changed me. It taught me that impact is not about having a perfect story. It’s about having a willing one.

You may read this and think, I don’t have a story like that.But that’s not the point.

You don’t need my story. Because someone, somewhere, needs yours. They need your honesty. Your perspective. Your quiet perseverance. Your lessons learned in places no one else saw. The way you kept going when it didn’t make sense to. The way you are still here.

Impact doesn’t always look like a stage and a microphone. Sometimes it looks like a conversation. A message. A moment of courage when it would be easier to stay silent. Your life is not small. Your story is not insignificant. And your pain—no matter how confusing or unfinished it feels right now—has the potential to reach further than you can see.

So here’s the question I want to leave you with: What if the very thing you wish you never went through…becomes the very thing that helps someone else make it through?

And what if the healing you’re still waiting for…begins when you decide your story is still worth telling anyway?

Because it is.

And it always has been.