There are things I don’t write about lightly.
Not because they are shameful.
Not because they lack healing.
But because they carry weight.
And if I am going to offer guidance, it has to come from truth — not polish.
For years, people have called me strong.
Courageous.
Wise.
But I need to say something plainly:
I never felt any of those things.
It felt like consuming fear, overwhelming love, and undying protection. It felt like survival. Never once did I feel strong, courageous, or wise.
When you are standing in the middle of betrayal, misinformation, broken relationships, and watching your children absorb collateral damage from someone else’s choices, you are not thinking about bravery.
You are thinking:
“How do I stop this from spreading?”
Because bitterness spreads.
It metastasizes like a cancer.
It leaks into your tone.
Into your parenting.
Into your sleep.
Into your faith.
Into your future.
I knew if I allowed bitterness to root in me, it would not stop with me.
My children had already endured enough erosion from lies, manipulation, and judgment — both directly and from those who chose to believe what they were told.
I refused to let my pain become another wound in their story.
So I chose grace.
Not soft grace.
Not naive grace.
Disciplined grace.
I forgave.
I released.
I stepped back.
For a long time, I did not even have language for what I was living through.
It wasn’t until my therapist explained narcissistic abuse that the lights came on.
Suddenly, patterns made sense.
Manipulation made sense.
Control made sense.
I learned that when I resisted, when I didn’t submit to pressure, when his influence over me weakened, he would regain power by turning his anger toward our children.
Because he knew that was where my heart lived.
If they were hurting, I would fold.
If they were afraid, I would comply.
If they were destabilized, I would come back under control.
So I stayed longer than I should have.
Not because I was weak.
But because I was shielding.
I was standing in front of them, absorbing what I could.
The turning point came when I began to see my own wounds forming in my children.
Their anxiety.
Their confusion.
Their emotional weight.
And I knew:
This stops here.
They had an entire future ahead of them. And I was not going to let them learn that love meant control, that faith meant silence, or that marriage meant enduring harm.
When I chose freedom for us, the attacks intensified.
That is what happens when control is threatened.
But I did not go back.
One of the deepest wounds was realizing that I was not “enough” for him to choose truth.
Not enough for him to choose growth.
Not enough to choose our family over his image.
Not enough to bring hidden things into the light and heal.
And even harder than that was watching my children experience the fallout.
The man who was supposed to protect us became the source of our wounds.
The one who claimed faith chose reputation.
That shattered something in me.
And it forced us to lift our eyes to God as our true covering, our true defender, our true nurturer.
That climb was one of the hardest things we ever did.
There were other wounds too.
Friends I considered family believed things that were not true.
Rumors spread.
Silence replaced loyalty.
Because I did not grow up with strong family support, my friendships became my family. I poured my whole heart into them.
Truth.
Integrity.
Consistency.
Presence.
That was my language of love.
So when those relationships fractured, it wasn’t just relational loss.
It was the loss of belonging.
I learned a hard lesson:
A relationship is defined by what I bring, not what I receive.
I don’t love to be repaid.
I love because that is who I am.
Learning to be okay with lack of due regard was painful.
But it freed me.
I also had to forgive myself.
When I finally understood what I had lived through, I questioned everything.
How did I not see it?
How did I normalize it?
How did I let my children live in that environment?
Learning to forgive the version of myself who didn’t yet have language, education, or clarity was one of the hardest parts of healing.
I did the best I could with what I knew.
When I knew better, I did better.
That matters.
Years later, I learned that what I was carrying had a name:
Trauma.
PTSD.
Body memory.
The tightness in the chest.
The breath that shortens when someone else tells a similar story.
The urge to cry when guiding others through trenches I once walked.
Healing did not erase that.
It taught me how to feel without being swallowed.
My therapist tells me not to swallow emotion down.
And I am learning how to let it rise without letting it rule.
That is hard work.
It is crucifying flesh without crucifying humanity.
It is separating emotion from identity.
It is allowing God to refine pain into wisdom instead of weaponry.
Healing is not pretty.
It looks like a gem covered in dirt before it shines.
It feels like friction and chiseling and surrender.
But when God does the polishing, the beauty that emerges is not performance.
It is power.
Today, I can honestly say:
I have godly love for the one who hurt me.
I want redemption for him.
I want him at God’s table.
But I do not engage with him in this life.
Forgiveness is not access.
Grace is not proximity.
Love is not self-betrayal.
That distinction took years to learn.
It is wisdom.
There were moments when I had to physically and spiritually take my eyes off judgment, because my emotions were taking me to places that I knew grace would not follow.
That is something no one talks about.
Sometimes obedience looks like turning your face away so your heart doesn’t harden.
Sometimes protecting your peace is not avoidance.
It is survival.
If you are walking through judgment right now…
If lies are louder than your truth…
If your children are caught in the crossfire…
If you feel exhausted from being strong…
Hear me:
Greater is He who is in you than the world that speaks against you.
You do not have to retaliate to be vindicated.
You do not have to engage to be innocent.
You do not have to shout to be seen by God.
Bitterness is not strength.
Rage is not protection.
Silence is not weakness when it is chosen with wisdom.
You can love and still have boundaries.
You can forgive and still walk away.
You can hurt and still be healing.
You can feel and still be faithful.
I was not brave.
I loved enough to survive.
And I survived in a way that did not poison the future.
That is growth.
That is legacy.
That is faith refined by fire.
And if my story does anything for you, I hope it does this:
I hope it gives you permission to feel deeply.
To seek help boldly.
To forgive wisely.
To set boundaries confidently.
To trust God with your integrity and honor.
To believe that healing is possible — even when it is slow.
Not from a pulpit.
From the trenches.
“He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.” — Isaiah 40:29
“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” — Exodus 14:14
Sometimes the bravest thing we do is keep trusting God when we are tired.
Sometimes rising looks like resting in His hands.
As Viktor Frankl wrote, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”
And as Helen Keller reminded us, “Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet, but through trial and suffering.”
If you are walking through your own valley right now, may God steady you, strengthen you, and remind you that your story is still being redeemed.
And please always remember: you are seen, you are held, and you are never walking alone.
Standing with you in faith and hope,
Tina N. Campbell | Scribed in Light
Scribed In Light 
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