There was a time in my life when I believed I was too far gone. The weight of addiction had wrapped itself around my soul like chains, and anxiety gnawed at my peace like a relentless storm. I couldn’t see beyond the mess I had made, let alone believe that anything good could come out of it. I was broken, ashamed, and tired—tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of pretending I was okay.
But then I encountered Romans 8:28.
A Promise in the Chaos
It says, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.” It didn’t say some things. It didn’t say only the good things. It said all things. That meant my shame, my failures, my addiction, my anxiety, my darkest nights—all of it—could be used for something greater than I could imagine.
That verse changed the lens through which I saw my journey.
Recovery isn’t linear. There are days when I feel like I’m on top of the mountain, and days when I’m back in the valley, trying to remember how to breathe. Anxiety still knocks on my door, whispering lies about who I am and who I’ll never be. But now, I don’t face these battles alone. I face them with the assurance that God is still working—even in the chaos, even in the quiet, even in my doubt.
Turning Relapse Into Redemption
When I relapsed, I thought I had ruined everything. The guilt crushed me. But God didn’t abandon me. Instead, He used that moment to remind me of my need for grace, for connection, for vulnerability. He brought people into my life who didn’t judge me but walked with me. He opened doors I thought were long shut. He reminded me that healing doesn’t happen by pretending we’re perfect—it happens when we’re real.
I began to see my past not as a curse, but as a testimony.
Every scar became a story. Every struggle became a lesson. And every panic attack became a moment where I could lean into faith, rather than fear.
Sometimes, we want the pain to go away quickly. We want healing without the heartache. But what I’ve learned is this: God doesn’t waste a single part of our story. The same anxiety that once kept me paralyzed is now the fire that fuels my compassion for others. The same addiction that tried to destroy me is now the bridge I walk across to reach people who feel lost, hopeless, and unworthy.
You Are Not Disqualified
If you’re in the thick of it right now—if the weight of recovery feels too heavy, if the anxiety won’t let up, if the past keeps shouting louder than your future—I want you to know this:
You are not alone.
And more than that—you are not disqualified.
Romans 8:28 isn’t just a comforting verse—it’s a promise. A promise that nothing you’ve been through is too messy for God to redeem. A promise that your story isn’t over. A promise that your pain has a purpose.
I’ve learned to stop asking, “Why did this happen to me?” and instead started asking, “How can this be used for good?”
That shift changed everything.
Now, when I wake up anxious, I pray.
When I feel triggered, I reach out.
When I remember where I’ve been, I give thanks that I’m not there anymore.
And when I fall, I get up—with grace.
So today, I’m reminding myself—and I’m reminding you—that all things, yes all things, work together for good. That includes the nights you cried yourself to sleep. That includes the times you slipped. That includes the moments you thought you’d never smile again.
Keep Going—You’re Not Done Yet
Let your recovery be messy if it has to be—but let it also be real. Because that’s where the healing happens. That’s where the miracles begin.
Your past does not define you—your purpose does.
Your pain does not end your story—it begins your testimony.
And your brokenness is not the end—it’s the place where beauty begins.
Keep going.
God’s not done.
And neither are you.
