We come into this world fragile, unknowing, and dependent—and we leave it in much the same way. Along the way, life leaves its marks on us, not in spite of its challenges but because of them. We are shaped, scarred, and softened by the trials we face. Yet so many of us chase an illusion—a life without pain, without struggle, as if perfection were the ultimate goal of being human.
But it isn’t.
The purpose of life is found in the cracks, in the bruises, in the breaking—and in what is created in their aftermath. These moments are not punishments or proof of failure, nor are they reasons to turn away or shut down. They are neither curses nor accidents—they are the thresholds that transform us, the fires that temper us, if we have the courage to endure them.
Difficulty is unavoidable. This is a truth none of us escapes. For some, it arrives like a hurricane—sudden, ferocious, leaving nothing untouched. For others, it creeps in quietly, a betrayal here, a loss there, until its weight feels unbearable. And for every one of us, there comes a reckoning—a confrontation with pain and suffering that no amount of control or preparation can shield us from.
We try to make sense of it. We search for reasons, for scapegoats, for ways to shut out the darkness. But what I’ve learned is that resistance only tightens its grip. To deeply feel joy, gratitude, and love, we must also deeply feel fear, grief, betrayal, and loss. We must meet these moments head-on and allow them to carve new spaces within us—spaces for understanding, compassion, and strength.
Rather than projecting the pain of these moments onto others—creating more chaos, more hurt, and seeking temporary relief by making others feel as broken as we do—we must sit with this pain and allow ourselves to truly feel it. This is how we come to understand it, to grow our compassion and empathy for ourselves first. And in doing so, we gain the ability to extend that same compassion to others, to help them navigate their darkest times, and to make a difference for the better in this world.
These moments of breaking, surrendering, and letting go are not the end of us. They are the beginning. And it is here, in the fullness of our vulnerability, that we find the presence of God—not as a distant observer but as the essence of love and renewal working through us.
Sitting with Darkness
I know this darkness well. I’ve sat with it, breathed it, bathed in it, and learned its language. It began before I could even speak—an orphanage crib that held me more often than arms. It grew with the pain of being left behind, again and again, and then, as an adult, it shattered me through the caregiving and loss of so many who finally chose me, who I loved with my entire soul.
I have known betrayal—the sharp sting of trust broken in places too sacred to touch. Abuse that left bruises not just on my skin but on the essence of who I was. Loss that hollowed me out, leaving an echo of grief I thought would never fade. Through it all, I sat with those feelings—fear, rage, despair. I did not shut them out. I did not feed them with hatred, though they begged me to.
Instead, I sat with them and asked what they had to teach me.
Pain is relentless. It demands to be felt. And in feeling it—in truly allowing yourself to experience the grief, the fear, the anger—it transforms. Pain strips us down to our barest essence. It peels away the illusions of control, the facades we build to protect ourselves. What’s left is real—raw, unpolished, but achingly true.
And from that truth, something new can be born.
The Divinity of Suffering
I believe God experiences life with us—and we, Him—more fully, not in the absence of pain, but in the fullness of it. In our tears, in our cries for understanding, in our eventual embrace of gratitude for even the darkest moments—this is where God meets us.
He is not a distant, silent observer of our suffering. He is present in it, as much as He is present in our joy. He feels the breaking, the betrayal, the grief. He feels the triumphs, the breakthroughs, the moments of hard-won peace. And through it all, He whispers, “I am with you. I am in this with you. Keep going.”
This is why I reject the notion that a life free from pain is a life worth living. Why come here, to this human experience, if not to be broken open, to feel the full spectrum of what it means to be alive? Why avoid the hard truths, the aching lows, when they are what make the highs so vibrant?
These are the questions I would ask myself, especially in those dark moments. There must be a higher meaning, a deeper reasoning behind it all, I always thought.
The Absurdity of Avoiding Triggers
And yet, we live in a world that seems hellbent on avoiding the very things that could grow us. Society has wrapped itself in bubble wrap, insisting that we tiptoe around anything that could potentially “trigger” discomfort. But here’s the truth: triggers are necessary. They are invitations to examine ourselves and the world around us.
We cannot grow if we avoid the things that challenge us. Pain, discomfort, and yes, even triggers, are mirrors. They reflect back to us the unhealed wounds, the biases, the fears we’ve tucked away. If we refuse to look in that mirror—if we shut down every difficult conversation or idea because it makes us uncomfortable—we stunt ourselves.
We are so busy trying not to offend or upset that we’ve forgotten what it means to truly feel. We’ve mistaken safety for growth and comfort for progress. But growth isn’t safe. It’s not comfortable. It’s raw and messy and sometimes excruciating. Triggers are not something to fear or avoid. They are something to sit with, to learn from, to work through.
Every time we silence someone or shut down a discussion because it hits a nerve, we rob ourselves of an opportunity to grow. We rob others of the chance to face their own darkness and come out stronger.
An Invitation to Feel
So, I invite you: don’t run from the darkness. Don’t shut it out. Don’t let anger, bitterness, or hatred consume you. Instead, let the darkness speak to you. Sit with your fear. Hold your grief. Breathe through the betrayal and the loss. These are not enemies—they are guides. They will teach you if you let them.
This is not easy. I won’t pretend it is. There were moments in my life when the pain felt insurmountable. Moments when I wanted nothing more than to escape it. But what I’ve learned is this: the only way out is through.
Sit with your darkness. Listen to it. Let it grow you. And when you’ve faced the abyss and come out the other side, you will know the fullness of life. You will understand God in a way that no perfect life ever could.
Because the worth of this life isn’t found in the absence of pain—it’s found in what we create from it. It’s found in the love that remains when the dust settles. It’s found in the gratitude we feel for simply being here, scars and all.
This is the beauty of being human. This is the purpose of pain.
The Twin Tree Project 