SURRENDER

Letting go and letting God.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Then why was my head heavy even without a crown?

And why was my heart so tight—
like a pile of stones had been placed on it?
Or was it the weight of mountains I had piled up myself?

---

I carried no visible burden—at least, none anyone could see.
Yet the weight rested on my heart,
tormenting me day and night.

I didn’t realize I was picking up baggage from every corner, every pause and every stop.
Before I knew it, I was holding more than I could bear.

I was heavy.
I was tired.
I was burdened with too much weight—
shame, and fear.

Fear of everything.

Of life.
Of myself.
Of people.
Of the world.

Of the questions I carried with no answers.
Of the thoughts that lived rent-free in my head.
Of what I was capable of—
things I hadn’t even discovered yet.

---

I had questions.
Questions about God.
About His presence.
About whether He was still there.

Was He watching me suffer this much?
Was He watching my heart grow heavy every bright morning?
Was He watching me cry when no one saw?

I began questioning His existence again,
and I wondered if that made me weak—
or human, or both.

I wondered what connection the physical with the spiritual. And what relationship divinity had with humanity.

If I asked these questions,
would I look stupid or ignorant?
Would anyone be receptive?
Or would they see me as an apostate I wasn’t?

---

So, I created my own cave—
dark, tight, suffocating.

And I stayed there.

I allowed myself to sink into the sea of my never-ending questions and imagination.

If curiosity killed the cat,
then I must have been kin to it—
because these thoughts and questions were slowly killing me.

I knew I wasn’t safe,
but the cave felt safer than hoping for a light,
a voice, a help that might never come.

I didn’t want false hope.
I made peace with the reality I was living.

---

Praying was tiring.
It wasn’t as simple as “God, help me,”
or “God, please.”
A heavy heart doesn’t pray that easily.

Seeking help felt impossible.

There weren’t many doors that opened quickly,
and my hands grew tired of knocking.
Tired of seeking and not finding.
Tired of asking and getting no answers.

Tired of life.
Tired of living.
I was tired of everything.

---

Would there be help for my soul?
And if there was, how would I find it?

Would I have to reach rock bottom
before I could put words to how I felt?
And even then—
would I say everything?
Would I leave nothing unsaid?

I was losing it already.
Losing myself.

Who I had become wasn’t who I once knew.
She felt like a stranger—
one I had grown painfully familiar with.

My heart longed deeply for something,
and I couldn’t quite put it into words.

Freedom, maybe.
A place to rest.
A place to finally call home.

A place of lasting peace—
not fleeting euphoria.

---

Was I looking for who I once was?
Maybe. Even a better version.

Was I tired of holding myself together?
Yes.

Did I believe there was a way out?
Yes.

Was it something I had tried a million times?
Yes.

I wanted help.
And I knew it existed somewhere.

All I had to do was stop fighting it.

Stop resisting.
Stop trying to carry a load
I was never meant to carry alone.

All I had to do was go.
All I had to do was step out of the cave
that was doing me no good.
All I had to do was take the step.

So, I went.

I didn’t go all-knowing.
But I still went.

I didn’t go with clean hands
or a pure heart.

I didn’t go with all the answers.
But I still went.

---

I went with what I had—
carrying questions I didn’t know how to pray through,
doubts I felt guilty for having,
and a faith already worn thin.

With the little faith I had—
as small as a mustard seed,
or maybe already as large as a mountain.

I went to the One whose voice I could hear
clearly in the noise.

“Come to Me, My child, and lay your burdens at My feet.”

I went to the One who promised rest.

I went to the One who said
He had been knocking on the door of my heart
while I searched for other doors to open.

I went to the One who said He had been here all along—
the one with all the answers to my questions.

---

And I surrendered—my burdens, my pain, myself. All I had.

Surrender did not look like strength.
It looked like God finding me where I was
at my lowest,
at my last,
at the point where I believed there was nothing left for me.

Surrender was admitting
that I could no longer carry my burdens—
or myself.

It was admitting I was too tired to pretend,
too worn out to run,
too empty to argue.

Surrender looked like a new wave of fresh air—
like stopping to finally breathe.

---

I didn’t walk out of the cave instantly.
Life didn’t suddenly become easy.
I didn’t even find answers that day.

I found rest.

And I was no longer alone in the dark.
For the first time in a long while,
I saw a beam of hope.

God didn’t give me euphoria.
He gave me peace—
an assurance that I was seen,
held,
and not beyond saving.

---

Surrender wasn’t the end of me.

It was the beginning of the new—
of learning how to live without carrying everything alone.

Surrender was not losing myself.

It was the quiet assurance
that I was no longer alone,
that my questions didn’t scare God,
and that my weakness wasn’t a disqualification.

That I was never meant to wear the heavy crown.
I was meant to rest in the hands of the One who does.

Surrender was me finally coming home to Him.