The Weight I Didn't Ask For

I’m not strong. I just surrendered. And there’s a difference.

Strength performs. Strength stands up straight, fixes her face, and answers the question, “How are you?” with something socially acceptable. Surrender tells the truth.

And the truth is, in less than a year and a half, I have lost my aunt, who adored me, my father, who guided me, and my grandfather, who molded me. Three pillars. Gone.

And somewhere in between grief and breath, I was betrayed, left unprotected, and still expected to keep going. So I did. Not because I’m strong, but because I didn’t have another option except God.

Life is painful. Not sometimes, not occasionally. Life is a rhythm of breaking and becoming, of losing and learning how to live anyway. I remember listening to James Baldwin talk about how we walk this earth believing our pain is the greatest pain ever known to man—until we open a book, until we hear someone else’s story and realize… oh. This pain isn’t mine alone. It’s human. It’s shared. It’s the thread that ties us together when everything else tries to pull us apart.

And the irony is, while I was filming a podcast—Prayer, Purpose & Prosecco—talking about “The Weight I Didn’t Ask For,” I didn’t know that seven days later, at the exact same time, my grandfather would take his last breath. I didn’t know. But I felt something. Because after losing my father, I watched my grandparents stand on that stage and mourn their oldest son—the one they thought would bury them. And I saw it. The crack in my grandfather’s heart that never quite closed. So when he left, it didn’t surprise me. It just broke me differently.

People keep saying, “You’re so strong.” And I keep thinking about Elijah. Because after the victories, after the miracles, after showing up for everybody else, he ran into the wilderness and said, “God… just take me.” And that part is real. Because there comes a moment when you’re not asking for strength anymore—you’re asking for release.

And what I love about God is that He didn’t judge him for that. He didn’t say, “After all I’ve done for you?” He didn’t call him weak. He sent an angel. An angel to let him rest, to feed him, to sit with him in his exhaustion.

That’s when I understood something I can’t unlearn. Sometimes God isn’t going to pull you out of the pit. Sometimes He climbs down in it with you. He sits beside you in the dark, wraps His presence around your breaking, and reminds you that you don’t have to do this alone.

So when I tell you I’m not strong, believe me. I have just learned how to fall and still reach for God on the way down. I have learned that faith is not always loud, not always confident. Sometimes faith whispers, “Just hold on.” That’s it. No plan, no answers, no timeline. Just… hold on.

So for anybody who feels like they don’t have anything left to give, you’re not alone. You’re not broken beyond repair. You’re just human. And maybe—just maybe—you’re closer to God than you’ve ever been before.

This is not the weight I asked for. But it is the weight I am learning to carry—not by strength, but by faith.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FukDWJm-Sdk

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. (Psalm 24:18 NIV) ~ That Part!