✨ ✞ ✧ ✞ ✨ The Woman Who Walks Alone ✨ ✞ ✧ ✞ ✨

🕊 ✞ ✧ ✞ 🕊 The Woman Who Walks Alone 🌿 ✧ ✞ ✧ 🌿

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She did not always live inside quiet rooms.

There were years when her life was loud — crowded houses, tangled friendships, music shaking the walls, laughter that felt real for an hour and gone by dawn. She once moved inside circles built on noise and adrenaline, on borrowed belonging and survival promises that never lasted. Those years were reckless in a way that felt like hunger — the kind that kept her moving even when her body was tired, the kind that made her believe closeness could be bought with presence and that safety might appear if she stayed awake long enough. She learned how to mirror, how to soften herself, how to become what was needed so she would not be left. She learned how to disappear in plain sight.

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And then her life began to narrow.

Not all at once. Not gently. But steadily — as betrayals exposed the difference between affection and allegiance, as comfort collapsed under weight it was never meant to carry, as the illusions she leaned on slowly gave way beneath her feet. The rooms that once felt crowded grew thin. The laughter began to echo. Promises arrived lighter and left faster. The ground she had trusted stopped holding.

She fell through layers she did not yet know she was wearing.

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“For You, O God, have tested us; You have refined us as silver is refined.” — Psalm 66:10

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Pain burned away what applause had built. Loss stripped her of what comfort had disguised. The fire did not make her louder. It made her clearer. It taught her the difference between intensity and intimacy, between attention and safety, between being wanted and being held. She learned to feel pressure beneath kindness, hooks beneath affection, hunger beneath flattery — and she stopped trading her center for belonging.

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“The simple believe anything, but the prudent give thought to their steps.” — Proverbs 14:15

People began to say she was distant. Hard to read. Hard to reach. Hard to move.

She was not hard.

She was awake.

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Her body slowed. Her world grew smaller. Her days became quiet enough that the mind could no longer outrun itself. Invitations faded. Rooms emptied. Silence stopped being background noise and became a living presence — measured by the low hum of a box fan that never turned off, even in winter, and the long hush between cars passing on the nearby highway. Time began to move in wider spaces. The hours stretched. The nights lingered. Pain did not ask permission before arriving, and relief did not hurry.

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“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10

“My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me.” — John 10:27

She learned to hear God without crowds, without borrowed certainty, without performance. Her faith did not grow louder — it grew steadier. It became something that could survive relapse, disappointment, and the kind of long nights when hope does not rush in, when prayer is whispered because there is nowhere else to put the weight of the moment.

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She was misjudged in that season.

Some called her withdrawn.

Some called her strange.

Some quietly disappeared.

But she did not disappear.

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“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

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She stopped collecting people and began watching for fruit — for peace that did not vanish, for repentance that did not perform, for safety that did not come with hooks.

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“You will recognize them by their fruits.” — Matthew 7:16

Her life grew quieter — but cleaner. Smaller — but clearer. Solitary — but grounded. She no longer measured her worth by numbers, nor anchored her identity in approval. What remained was not emptiness. It was space — room for discernment, room for truth, room for a steadiness that did not depend on applause.

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And that kind of woman becomes disruptive without raising her voice.

Because truth does something noise never can.

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“You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” — John 8:32

“The Lord will guide you continually.” — Isaiah 58:11

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Her days now move slowly. Her world is small. Her pace is gentle. But her spirit stands steady.

And there is a kind of silence that carries more power than noise ever could.

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✧ The Unmasking ✧

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She is not a metaphor.

She is me.

This was written from the inside of quiet rooms — where the air smells faintly of perfume and air freshener mingling together, where dogs breathe softly at the edge of the bed, where a cat claws her tree in the corner, and the same walls witness hours that used to feel unbearable. From nights when pain made sleep feel like a rumor and mornings that arrived too early. From hospital stays, relapses, and prayers whispered because there was nowhere else to set the weight of the moment.

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From the season when my world narrowed so much that I had no choice but to reach upward and say, If You are still here, please meet me here.

And He did.

Not because I was finished.

Not because I was strong.

But because I was still breathing.

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“For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.” — Romans 7:19

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That verse did not condemn me.

It named me.

It told the truth about the war inside my bones — the loops I kept tripping over, the hope I kept reaching for, the mercy I kept finding even when I was not done becoming.

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Transformation did not arrive like lightning.

It came like roots — quiet, slow, and stubborn.

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🫏 ✧

This is my life.

This is my testimony.

This is what He did with the wreckage.

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And I am still standing.