More Than I Could Handle

They say, “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.”

They say, “Your struggles make you stronger.”

But I’m here to tell you — it was more than I could handle.

I could not keep going.

There came a point where my mind, my body, and my spirit fractured under the weight of it all.

My brain did what it had to do to keep me alive — it built walls, it buried memories, it softened edges I wasn’t ready to see.

My stomach rebelled, my nerves fired nonstop, my body screamed the words I couldn’t find.

I disassociated, floating somewhere between reality and oblivion, because existing in my body felt unbearable.

This wasn’t strength. It was survival.

And survival is not pretty or graceful or something that can be tied up in a neat little saying about resilience.

It was more than I could handle — and that doesn’t make me weak.

It makes me human.

The truth is, our minds and bodies are wired to protect us when the pain becomes too much.

Sometimes we shatter so that we can be rebuilt differently, safely, slowly.

Sometimes survival is the bravest thing we do.

People love to romanticize pain, to dress it up with purpose — as if every scar must be redeemed with wisdom, every heartbreak rewarded with strength.

But some things just hurt.

Some things simply are.

And we don’t owe anyone a story of strength to justify our suffering.

Am I stronger because of it?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Strength isn’t always the lesson.

Sometimes the lesson is that I deserved better.

Sometimes the lesson is that I was already enough before the breaking.

But this much I know for certain:

I survived.

My survival rate for hard days is currently one hundred percent.

And that, for now, is enough.

Takeaway:

You don’t have to find meaning in every wound.

You don’t have to be stronger because of what hurt you.

Sometimes, surviving is the miracle.

And today, that’s worth honoring.