The Spiritual Woman Fellowship
I just want to encourage someone today—keep striving toward the ideal. Keep moving forward. Women like Esther, Deborah, and so many others who came before us weren’t just figures of history. They were real women, with real struggles, and yet—they rose.
Yesterday, I was in a meeting on mental health. People were brave—vulnerable. One woman shared about surviving ten years of abuse. A man opened up about the damage done by living with a narcissistic partner. As I listened, all I could think was:
“It’s beautiful—not the pain, but the rising.
The courage it takes to survive, to walk forward, to heal.”
I voiced that. I honored the victory of survival.
But then came the pushback.
“It’s not that easy.”
“Society is still broken.”
“The struggle continues.”
And for a moment, I paused.
Did I say something wrong?
But I spoke again—not to diminish pain, but to name the power in rising above it.
“What advice would you give someone trapped in an abusive situation?” I asked.
“Shouldn’t we encourage them to be strong, to get out, to live?”
The moderator agreed. “Yes,” they said, “that’s the only thing they can do.”
Exactly.
We live in a world so “woke” that even encouragement sounds like pressure.
But I get it.
When you’ve been deeply wounded, words like “Be strong” can feel like someone’s ignoring your suffering.
And yes, sometimes people who have walked through fire may speak with an edge that feels sharp.
But God’s standard is still clear:
“Let the weak say, I am strong.” — Joel 3:10
And here’s what I’ve learned:
Strength doesn’t come from suppressing pain. It comes from allowing virtue to grow inside the pain.
From the crushing, comes the oil.
We talk about rising as if it’s only about making bold moves—leaving, building, fighting.
But true rising begins in the hidden places, in the quiet battles of the soul.
1. Patience
Rising doesn’t always look like speed. Sometimes, it’s a slow, trembling crawl toward hope.
Patience is the refusal to give up when nothing changes yet—when you pray, and wait, and believe again.
2. Gratitude
Even in the wilderness, you can whisper thanks.
Not for the pain—but for the grace that’s keeping you, the strength that’s growing quietly inside.
3. Faith
This is the lifeline. Not just belief in God—but belief that your story still matters, even when the world tells you otherwise.
4. Forgiveness
This one hurts. But it’s where freedom lives.
Forgiveness isn’t about saying what they did was okay. It’s about saying: You don’t get to own me anymore. I’m walking out, free.
These are the bricks that build your rising.
Without them, strength becomes performance. With them, it becomes transformation.
My Story Isn’t Just Pain—It’s Victory in Progress
I’ve known heartbreak. I’ve faced abandonment.
Seven years ago, I stood on the edge—literally ready to end my life.
Not in a vague, emotional way. I had the means. The plan.
But somehow, I’m here.
And if you’re reading this—you are too.
I don’t have all the answers. But I know this:
I am not a victim.
I have been broken, yes—but I am not beyond repair.
I am healing. I am growing.
I am rising.
Listen, I’ve spent years teaching emotional sensitivity.
I know the harm done when people rush to fix instead of sit with you in the ashes.
Sometimes in grief, the best ministry is silence.
So no—I wouldn’t walk into someone’s trauma and yell “Be strong.”
Even God is tender. When Elijah was suicidal, God didn’t lecture him. He fed him. Let him rest. Then gave him vision.
But God also never lets us stay in the pit.
When the Israelites were bitten by snakes in the desert, God said:
“Look up.”
Not at the wound. Not at the venom. Up.
It’s unnatural. But it’s life-saving.
In today’s culture—especially in the West—we’ve become so protective of people’s pain that we’ve stopped calling them to healing.
I once shared a story with my cousin and her friend. I mentioned where I might have made a mistake, where I would have responded differently.
Her friend erupted.
“You’re just conditioned by society to blame yourself! It was all the man’s fault!”
Maybe. Maybe not.
But here’s what I know: Healing doesn’t grow where blame reigns.
I’d rather own my story than be owned by it.
This is your line-in-the-sand moment.
This is your Deborah moment.
Your Esther moment.
You carry the exact imprint of God’s divinity within you.
You are not weak.
You are not feeble.
You are not forgotten.
You are strong.
Not because life has been easy.
But because you’ve let the hard places teach you patience.
Because you’ve dared to be grateful in the dark.
Because you chose faith over fear.
Because you forgave when no apology came.
Because you didn’t stay on the ground.
So now—rise.
Rise, sister.
Rise in virtue.
Rise in vision.
Rise in your God-given strength.
Not just for you—but for the woman watching you.
For the daughters coming after you.
For the generations that will walk freer because you dared to stand.
And when the world tries to shame you for rising too boldly, loving too deeply, or speaking too strongly?
Look up.
Remember whose you are.
And rise again!