To God

Dear God,

There are some thank you's that come easily in life. Thank You for the blessing. Thank You for the answered prayer. Thank You for the moments that feel whole and uncomplicated and beautiful from the beginning. But this thank you is different. This thank you was not born in comfort. It was born in survival. It was shaped slowly over years of healing, years of grieving, years of learning how to live inside a story I never would have chosen for myself.

This thank you was built inside hospital rooms.

Inside surgeries.

Inside fear.

Inside skin grafts and exhaustion and pain so overwhelming it changed the way time itself felt.

Inside nights where silence was louder than words and recovery felt impossibly far away.

Inside moments where I was too young to understand why suffering had entered my life so violently, yet somehow old enough to feel every ounce of it.

And still, through all of it, You stayed.

You stayed when survival was not inspiring.

When survival was not beautiful.

When survival was simply making it through another procedure, another painful dressing change, another night of wondering how much more my body and spirit could endure.

People often speak about survival as though it is triumphant from the beginning. But they do not always speak about the loneliness that can accompany it. The grief. The identity crisis. The quiet ache of looking in the mirror and trying to recognize yourself again. They do not always speak about what it feels like to carry visible reminders of pain into a world that often stares before it understands.

But You saw all of it.

You saw the fear I tried to hide.

You saw the anger.

You saw the exhaustion.

You saw the moments I questioned why this had to happen to me.

You saw the moments I mourned not only the pain itself, but the innocence it took from me.

You saw the moments I felt different, isolated, fragile, and deeply tired of being strong.

And somehow, even then, You never once looked at me as damaged.

While I was struggling to understand my scars, You were already calling them evidence of survival.

While I was grieving what had been taken, You were protecting what could never be taken from me.

While I saw brokenness, You still saw purpose.

I think one of the hardest parts of this journey has been learning that healing is not a destination people simply arrive at. Healing is ongoing. It is layered. It is physical, emotional, spiritual, and deeply human all at once. There were wounds on my body, but there were also wounds inside my mind and heart that took years to even find language for. There were moments I became exhausted not only from pain itself, but from carrying the weight of constantly overcoming it.

And yet, somewhere inside all that suffering, You were quietly building something in me.

Resilience.

Compassion.

Depth.

Empathy.

Strength that did not need to announce itself to be real.

Because pain changes people. It does.

But I think what humbles me most is realizing that pain did not make me cruel. It did not harden me beyond recognition. Instead, through Your grace, it softened parts of me too. It taught me how to sit with hurting people without trying to rush their healing. It taught me how to recognize silent suffering in others. It taught me how sacred gentleness truly is.

My scars changed the way I move through the world, but they also changed the way I love people.

I know now that everyone is carrying something invisible.

I know now that some wounds never fully disappear.

I know now that surviving something traumatic does not mean you stop grieving it.

I know now that courage is often quiet.

Sometimes courage looks like simply waking up and trying again.

And God, thank You for teaching me that survival itself can be holy.

Thank You for every person You placed into my life during this journey. Family members who carried burdens they never asked for. Doctors and nurses whose hands became instruments of healing. Friends who loved me gently. People who reminded me I was still worthy of joy, worthy of tenderness, worthy of being fully seen beyond my scars.

Thank You for the moments I almost gave up emotionally but somehow kept going anyway.

Thank You for the strength that appeared when I had none left to manufacture for myself.

Thank You for carrying me when endurance no longer felt possible.

There were moments I begged for healing to be instant.

Moments I wanted the pain erased.

Moments I wished my story looked different.

But standing here twenty-three years later, I realize something I could not have understood back then:

You never wasted any of it.

Not the grief.

Not the fear.

Not the anger.

Not the physical pain.

Not the emotional rebuilding.

Not the years spent learning how to feel comfortable in my own skin again.

None of it was meaningless.

Because somehow, out of ashes, You created depth.

Out of trauma, You created compassion.

Out of wounds, You created connection.

Out of survival, You created purpose.

And maybe that is the miracle I understand most now.

Not that I escaped suffering.

But that suffering did not destroy my ability to love.

It did not destroy my softness.

It did not destroy my faith.

It did not destroy my future.

After everything, I am still here.

Still breathing.

Still healing.

Still becoming.

Still learning how to hold grief and gratitude in the same hands.

Still discovering that scars are not evidence of where You abandoned me, but evidence of where You carried me.

So today, God, I thank You for all of it.

For the fire.

For the survival.

For the healing that came slowly.

For the people who stayed.

For the lessons hidden inside unbearable moments.

For the strength born through suffering.

For every scar that tells the truth: that pain visited me, but it did not own me.

And most of all, thank You for never once leaving my side while I learned how to live again.

With humble gratitude,

Kelsay