Upendo Ministries

There’s a kind of pain no one else sees—
The ache that surfaces when the world is quiet,
When the lights go off and the voices fade,
And you’re left face-to-face with the mirror.

Not the one on your wall.
The one in your soul.

It’s the mirror that reflects all the things you wish you could undo.
The harsh word.
The choice you promised yourself you’d never make.
The silence when you should’ve spoken.
The spiral you didn’t stop.

And maybe no one knows about it.
Or maybe everyone does.
But either way, the guilt clings like a second skin.
You go to bed with it. Wake up with it. Smile through it. Serve through it.
But it whispers, “You’re too broken to be whole again.”

I don’t know what your moment was.
But I know what mine felt like.
Like I was carrying the ocean on my chest.
Like I didn’t deserve to sing again, or breathe deep again, or laugh like I hadn’t messed up.
And no matter how many times I said “I’m sorry,”
It never felt like enough to undo it.

That’s the trap of guilt: it makes you your own judge and jury.
You keep sentencing yourself, long after Christ already set you free.

But then comes Jesus.

And He doesn’t storm in with fire and thunder.
He comes with a whisper.

“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

Rest.
Not performance.
Not perfection.
Not payback.
Rest.

But rest feels hard when you’re used to punishing yourself.

It feels like you should suffer.
Like you should earn forgiveness.
Like it’s too easy to just say, “God, I’m sorry,” and move on.

But that’s the beauty of the cross.
It wasn’t easy.
It was bloody and brutal and unjust.
Because grace isn’t cheap.
It cost Him everything so you wouldn’t have to carry anything.

Forgiving yourself isn’t pretending it didn’t matter.
It’s acknowledging that it did—and Jesus paid for it anyway.

And surrender?
It’s not waving a white flag of defeat.
It’s collapsing into the arms of Someone who already knew the worst of you
and chose you still.

That kind of love wrecks you in the best way.
It makes you weep in a quiet room.
It makes you lay down the chains you didn’t even realize you’d been dragging.
It makes you breathe for the first time in years.

Let this be the truth that gently unsettles your shame:
You are allowed to move forward.
You are allowed to sing again.
To laugh again.
To rest.

Not because you did it right.
But because He did.

So today, even if your heart trembles,
Even if your hands shake,
Let go of the shame.
Fall into grace.
Let Christ define you, not your past.

You are not your worst moment.
You are His.
Forever, always, deeply—His.

And in that surrender…
You’ll find a freedom that feels like breathing again.
Like coming home.
Like redemption dripping down every corner of your soul.

Let it wreck you.
Let it rebuild you.
Let it be real.

Grace isn’t afraid of your story.
It came for it.

“Where sin increased, grace abounded all the more.” – Romans 5:20

You are forgiven.
Not because you feel it.
But because He said so.

I am praying you find your forgiveness.
It is there waiting for you.

-Vanessa