Category: Truth-Telling

When You’re Just Tired of Holding On

by Richelle Braybrook, posted in Truth-Telling

💬 “I’m tired. I’m heavy. And today, I want to give up.”

There’s no sugarcoating it today — my chest is heavy, my hope feels thin, and I’m tired of pretending it’s fine.

I don’t want to be strong today.
I don’t want to hear “you’ve got this” or “God’s got a plan” right now — even though deep down I know He does.
Right now, I just feel… done.

I look around and I’m so far from where I thought I’d be.
This dream of having a little place to call mine — a farm, a home, something steady — it feels impossible.
I’ve tried. I’ve prayed. I’ve worked hard.
And yet here I am… still stuck.
Still wondering how I’ll ever afford a future that feels like it was meant for someone else.

Why do I keep doing this?
Why do I keep holding on when everything in me says to let go?

Because deep down…
somewhere under the pain and pressure and exhaustion…
I still believe God’s not done with me.

But that doesn’t make this any easier.

There’s something about today that just feels extra heavy.
The kind of heavy that sits in your chest and makes you want to curl up and hide.
The kind of heavy that makes even getting dressed feel like too much.
The kind that whispers, “You’ll never get out of this. You’re wasting your time. Give up.”

But here’s the truth I’m clinging to, even if by a thread:

God sees me. Right now. In this exact moment.
Tired. Defeated. Mad.
And He’s not pulling away.
He’s sitting with me in it.

He’s not asking me to perform.
He’s not disappointed in my struggle.
He just wants me to bring it all to Him.
Even the ugly. Especially the ugly.

So that’s what I’m doing today.

I don’t have answers.
I don’t have a smile.
I don’t have energy to fake anything.

But I do have honesty.
And I do have faith — even if it’s shaky.

And maybe… that’s enough.

To the one reading this who feels the same:
You’re not alone.
You’re not weak.
You’re tired — and that’s okay.
This isn’t the end of your story.
You’ve been through harder. You’re still here.

Scripture:

“Come to Me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28 (NLT)

💬 If this is you too today, just type “me.” No big words. Just honesty.
We can’t heal in hiding. Let’s be real together.

I’m Not Being Buried — I’ve Been Planted

by Richelle Braybrook, posted in Faith, Truth-Telling

Some days I ask God if He forgot me.
Because it hurts.
Because it’s lonely.
Because everything I knew is falling apart and I’m the one sitting in the rubble, holding pieces that don’t fit anymore.

But He hasn’t buried me.
He’s planted me.

And planting doesn’t feel holy.
It feels like dying.
Like loss.
Like isolation.
Like everyone pulling away while you try to hold on.

Breaking Generational Pain

I was born into dysfunction.
I inherited pain I never asked for.
I watched patterns repeat that I didn’t know how to escape.

But I’m breaking it.
Right here.
Right now.
And the enemy knows it.

That’s why the fight has been so intense.
Because I’m not just healing for me — I’m healing for the ones who come after me.
I’m breaking chains that others accepted as normal.

Willpower Wasn’t Enough

I’ve tried to fix myself with willpower.
Tried to push through and act strong.
Tried to numb the pain or pretend it wasn’t there.

But I don’t want to just survive anymore.

I need spiritual power.
And that’s what God is giving me — in the quiet, in the tears, in the dark.
When all I can whisper is, “Jesus, please.”

The Shift Inside Me

My spirit is changing.
I feel it.
The people and places that once felt familiar now make me uneasy.
Not because I hate them.
But because I’m not her anymore.

The girl who stayed silent.
The girl who settled.
The girl who smiled through the pain.

She’s gone.

I’ve grown.
And some people can’t handle that.
And I’ve stopped apologizing for it.

This Pain Has Purpose

Yes, this season hurts.
But that doesn’t mean I’m being punished.
It means God is doing something deep.
Something holy.

He’s growing me.
Stretching me.
Rooting me.

Because what’s coming… is big.
And I need deep roots to hold it.

Obedience Over Popularity

God’s been stripping things away.
People I thought would stay.
Plans I thought were certain.

But I trust Him.
Because I’m not here to be popular — I’m here to be obedient.

This isn’t about a platform.
It’s about purpose.
And sometimes, that means walking alone.
Being unseen.
Feeling like you missed something.

But you didn’t.
You’ve just been set apart.

The Fruit Will Come

This is planting season.
And planting feels like death.
But it’s actually life in disguise.

The fruit that’s coming?
It’s going to be more than I prayed for.
More than I imagined.
Because it’s not about me.

It’s about what God can do through someone willing to surrender — even when it hurts.

Final Thought

If you’re in a painful season…
If you feel stripped, pruned, or hidden…
You’re not being buried.
You’ve been planted.

And the fruit will come.

💬 Comment if you can relate.
You’re not alone in this season. Keep going. You’re growing.

I Didn’t Lose My Kids. The System Lost Me.

by Richelle Braybrook, posted in Truth-Telling

This is the part of my story that most people don’t want to talk about. The part where judgment comes easy, and compassion is rare.

I didn’t lose my kids because I didn’t love them. I didn’t walk away because I was careless. I signed my rights away because the system made it almost impossible to keep them.

The judge said it to my face: “Being an addict, you would have a better chance of getting your kids back than having a mental illness.” That moment still sits heavy in my soul.

My lawyer cried. Not because I was weak—but because she knew I was up against something no love, no fight, no mother’s instinct could fix.

Mental illness didn’t make me unfit. It made me human. And it made the system uncomfortable.

I didn’t choose to give them up because I was giving up. I chose it because I knew dragging them through a hopeless court battle wasn’t love—it was trauma.

I chose their peace over my pride. I chose their stability over my presence. I chose the most painful kind of love—the one that sacrifices silently.

And every day since, I’ve carried that pain. Not because I regret the love, but because I miss what love cost me.

The system says it’s about reunification. But when you’re poor, mentally ill, and lacking support—it’s not about family. It’s about control.

So today, I tell the truth. For every mom who was forced to let go. For every parent who was labeled instead of loved. For every child who may one day ask “why?”

Because silence doesn’t protect us. It isolates us. And I won’t be silent anymore.

Reflection:
Have you ever made a decision that others judged, but deep down you knew it was the most loving thing you could do? You are not alone. Your love still counts.