My Body Still Remembers—But God Is Rewriting the Story

I didn’t get to be a kid.

From as early as I can remember, I was carrying weight a child shouldn’t carry. And the older I got, the more normal that felt—until one day in counseling, I said, "Sometimes I just feel like crying and I don’t know why." And she told me something that stuck with me: "That’s your body remembering."

And it made sense.

Because even now, when I see a group of kids playing or hear their little voices laughing, I feel something well up in my chest. Not jealousy. Not anger. Just this deep, old ache.

When I was young, there was always tension. I was either being touched in ways I shouldn't have been, or trying to avoid another beating. There was no space to breathe, to cry, to rest. I learned early how to disappear. Not physically, but emotionally. And for a long time, I thought that meant I was okay.

But now I know that trauma doesn’t go away just because you stop talking about it. It stays. On your shoulders. In your chest. In how you flinch or go numb or get real quiet without knowing why.

That’s why therapy has been so important. It helped me stop pretending I was fine and start paying attention to what was really going on inside me.

Like how I hold my breath when I hear yelling. Or how my hands shake when I feel like someone is disappointed in me. Or how I can go from laughing to shutting down in seconds.

That’s not just emotion. That’s history.

But here’s the good news: God is patient with my healing.

He doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t shame me. He meets me in the tears I can’t explain. In the panic that shows up uninvited. In the silence, I used to use as protection.

Healing for me hasn’t come through some loud church moment. It’s come in the stillness.In writing things down. In being honest in counseling. In not hiding anymore.

If any of this sounds familiar—if your body overreacts and you don’t know why, if you go numb and you don’t have words for it, if joy feels foreign because your whole life has been about survival—I want you to know something: You’re not crazy. You’re not weak. You’re not broken.

You’re remembering.

And you don’t have to stay stuck there.

God can heal the body too. He made it, after all. And He knows how to hold what we can’t name.

That’s what He’s doing for me. Every time I cry without a clear reason. Every time I breathe through the fear. Every time I tell the truth out loud.

He’s rewriting the story I thought would end in silence.

He saved me. And He’s still saving me.