Breaking free from fear, running after safety used to be my life’s mission. I had been constantly chasing a place where I could finally breathe. Where I wouldn’t have to fight anymore. But when I got there, the peace didn’t bring me peace. It scared me. Because I didn’t know how to live any other way than in chaos, uncertainty, fear, and restlessness. Those were my home, the forces that kept me moving. My body had been trained, for as long as I could remember, to stay on high alert, to struggle, to fix, to repair. To run. To be afraid.
So instead of allowing myself to breathe, I kept my fists clenched, ready to defend myself from a disaster that never even came. When there was nothing left to fix, I started looking for flaws. I searched for danger where there was none. I made up dark scenarios, bracing myself for the worst. I thought I could prevent bad things from happening just by anticipating them. But in reality, all I did was ruin my own peace.
I wasn’t used to peace, yet I had longed for it for so long. And when it finally arrived, it came with anxiety, with the fear of losing it. A silent fear that crept under the door, whispering to me even in my sleep that something bad was bound to happen. That it couldn’t really be this good. That if I let my guard down, everything would collapse in an instant.
I had been taught from a young age that safety was fragile, temporary, conditional. Every time things seemed to settle, something would come along and turn everything upside down.
And then guilt showed up. Guilt that I was okay while others weren’t. That I had found safety while my family was still struggling. That I had escaped the chaos, but the people I loved were still trapped in it.
How could I be at peace knowing they weren’t? How could I enjoy life without feeling like I was betraying them, abandoning them? I started pulling at invisible chains, trying to hold everything together, refusing to leave anyone behind. Maybe I was afraid that if I fully embraced my own peace, if I let go of my sense of duty, I would lose my connection to them.
At some point, I even questioned if my peace was real. Maybe it was just a break before God would come down on me for not following His rules, for failing to meet the expectations of the saints. As if He were watching from the shadows, holding the ledger of my debts, smirking as He waited for my turn to be struck down. Maybe, I hadn’t suffered enough yet. Maybe, all the good moments were just a setup. The calm before the storm. Maybe, happiness was a trap, and peace came at a price. And that price was more suffering.
It was easier to live in fear than in surrender. Easier to carry guilt than to accept the gift of peace. Because if I allowed myself to be okay, then I had to face the truth that my pain wasn’t currency for someone else’s happiness. That no amount of self-sacrifice could save everyone. And, perhaps the hardest truth of all, that life doesn’t hand out rewards for suffering. There was no trophy for how much I had endured.
And that realisation left me empty, without a purpose, without the supreme mission I had placed on my own shoulders. And that emptiness terrified me more than any storm ever had.
Peace. I learned that peace isn’t something you grip tightly with both hands. It’s not a fragile trophy you have to guard with everything you have. And my love for my family didn’t fade just because I was okay, because I had more than I ever dared to hope for, in every way.
Now, I wish that instead of fighting against it, I had simply stopped and accepted my progress. My peace. My happiness. That I had allowed myself to live it, without guilt, without treating it like something shameful or indulgent. Instead, I questioned it, doubted it, looked over my shoulder, waiting for the moment it would all fall apart. And in fighting to avoid that, I caused it.
And then, on my knees, I started over. But this time, differently. This time, after finally realising that God wasn’t waiting to strike me down. He was waiting to hold me in His arms.