Spiritual Growth – Sarah King

The Quiet between the Bells

Posted on 19 December 2025by Sarah King

A candle, a quiet road, and the courage to step inside.

Some people grow up inside Christmas.

They are born into it the way others are born into language or music. They know the rules without being taught. They understand when to laugh, when to sing, when to expect miracles, and when to stop asking questions. Christmas, for them, is a room they have always belonged in.

And then there are people who grow up just outside it.

They know Christmas exists. They can feel it in the air when December arrives, the way cold sharpens the senses and lights seem brighter against early darkness. They hear the songs drifting out of shops and churches and passing cars. They see families gather, watch hands link, watch traditions repeat themselves with the confidence of something never interrupted.

But they stand on the edge of it, always a step back, always watching.

This story is about one of those people.

She was not unloved. That is important to say. People cared for her in the ways they knew how. But care does not always translate into understanding, and understanding does not always grow into acceptance. There were silences in her life that no one meant to create, but once formed, they stayed.

From the time she was young, she sensed she lived between things.

Between answers that did not quite fit and questions no one wanted to hear. Between expectations placed on her and a deeper knowing she could never quite name. Between the world as it insisted on being ordered and the quieter truth that refused to be sorted.

She learned early that some things were easier left unsaid.

Christmas arrived every year whether she was ready or not.

It came wrapped in sound and colour and insistence. Bells rang. Schedules filled. People spoke louder, as though joy needed volume to survive the winter. Questions appeared with the same regularity as ornaments. What are you doing for Christmas. Who are you spending it with. Are you excited.

She learned to answer carefully.

She liked Christmas more than she admitted. Not the noise, not the expectations, but the mystery underneath it. The idea that something holy had once slipped into the world quietly, almost unnoticed. The belief that light had entered history not through power or certainty, but through vulnerability.

That part spoke to her.

She wondered often if God preferred the edges of things. If holiness was drawn to places where definitions softened and certainty gave way to trust. If maybe the spaces she lived in were not mistakes, but invitations.

But believing something privately does not make it easy to live publicly.

As she grew older, December stirred something restless in her. The world seemed to lean inward. Snow simplified things. It softened corners. It covered what could not be fixed and made it briefly beautiful anyway.

Winter never asked her to explain herself.

She noticed small things. The way breath fogged in the cold. The way lights reflected off ice. The way some houses glowed while others stayed dark, their curtains drawn tight as though guarding grief or weariness or both.

She passed those houses every year and wondered about the people inside. What they were carrying. What they were hiding. What they hoped Christmas might fix, even though it never quite does.

Her own life had taught her that some things are not repaired by a single night, no matter how sacred the story.

She lived carefully. Thoughtfully. She learned how to read rooms the way others read weather. She learned when to step forward and when to stay still. She learned that standing in the middle meant being misunderstood from both sides.

But she also learned how to listen.

And Christmas, beneath all its noise, is a season that whispers.

Advent came quietly that year.

The days shortened quickly, as though time itself was eager to get to something important. The sky took on that pale winter quality, neither blue nor grey, just waiting. She walked more than usual, letting the cold steady her thoughts.

On one of those walks, she passed a small church tucked between a bakery and a closed storefront. It was the kind of place people missed if they were not paying attention. Brick worn smooth by decades of weather. A simple wooden door. No sign announcing relevance.

The door was open.

Warm light spilled out onto the snow, and with it the low sound of voices. Not singing yet. Just murmuring. The quiet before something begins.

She stopped.

She had passed this church many times before without noticing it. Or perhaps she had noticed and chosen not to see. Either way, something held her there now. Not obligation. Not guilt. Just curiosity, gentle and persistent.

She did not go in.

Not yet.

She stood for a long moment, letting the warmth reach her face, then turned away and continued walking. Hope, she had learned, needed space. Rushed hope had disappointed her too often.

The days continued.

She baked one evening, not because she was hosting anyone, but because the smell reminded her of something she could not quite place. She wrapped a few small gifts for people who had surprised her by staying. A neighbour who checked in during storms. A coworker who remembered details others forgot. A friend who never asked her to be simpler.

She decorated sparingly. A string of lights. A small tree. Nothing that demanded explanation.

Christmas Eve arrived heavy with snow.

The kind that falls straight down, thick and quiet, as if the world has decided to pause. Streets emptied. Sound softened. The city felt smaller, held.

She found herself walking without quite deciding to. The cold pressed gently against her coat. Her breath rose and vanished. Footsteps crunched, then faded.

She stood again in front of the church.

The door was open.

Inside, candles glowed. A few dozen people sat scattered in the pews, no one arranged, no one trying to impress anyone else. A guitar was being tuned quietly. Someone laughed softly, then stopped, as though remembering where they were.

She stepped inside.

No one turned to stare. No one asked questions. A woman with silver hair smiled and handed her a candle. A man shifted slightly to make room. Two children swung their legs, whispering, then grew still.

She sat.

The air smelled of wax and pine. The kind of scent that lingers in memory long after the night ends. She felt her shoulders drop without realising they had been tense.

The story was told simply.

A journey. A child. No room at the inn. Light arriving without announcement.

She had heard it before, of course. Everyone had. But tonight it landed differently. Less like a lesson. More like a confession. As though the story itself understood what it meant to be overlooked.

Candles were lit one by one.

Light passed carefully from hand to hand, each flame borrowed, never owned. She watched faces soften in the glow. Lines eased. Expressions quieted. People became less certain and more present.

It occurred to her then that Christmas was not about belonging to a category. It was about being welcomed into a moment.

She looked around and noticed how different everyone was. People who would never agree on everything. People carrying grief, joy, exhaustion, hope. People who had made mistakes and people still pretending they had not.

And yet here they were, sharing light.

Family forming without permission or pedigree.

When the final song ended, no one rushed out. Someone pressed a warm mug into her hands. Someone else asked her name and listened carefully to the answer she offered. No one asked her to clarify herself. No one tried to place her.

It was enough.

Outside, the bells rang softly. Snow continued to fall. She stood for a moment, candle still burning, breath steady in the cold.

For the first time in a long while, she did not feel caught between worlds.

She felt held in the space between them.

And in that quiet, she understood something Christmas had been teaching her all along.

That love does not arrive with conditions.
That holiness often looks ordinary.
That God delights in the full, complicated truth of who we are.
That family forms wherever people choose to see one another clearly and stay.

She walked home slowly.

The candle burned low, but the light did not go out.

It never does.

Miracles of Faith

Posted on 1 August 2025by Sarah King

Do you believe miracles still happen?

I didn’t. Not for a long time. But maybe that’s because when you’re six going on seven and living life through the lens of broken dreams, walking in perpetual darkness and carrying the burdens of deep seeded trauma that most children in my world back then couldn’t even comprehend, miracles seem like biblical stories meant for other “normal” people. My “world” was shattered into unfathomable fragments I didn’t understand—pieces scattered across time, families, school, and provinces, ripped apart by institutions, bureaucracy, and the weight of being unwanted and rejected. I wasn’t just a child in foster care. I was a ghost passing through doorways, case files passed across desks, a whisper of a name in crowded places and classrooms where no one knew who I really was. I was nothing more than just a “blip”.

See, let me tell you a small story, but don’t worry, I will leave out some of the more “deeply traumatic” details that are “too dark” and “too heavy” for many including the younger readers.

See, when I was six years old, everything I understood about the world I was living in had already been undone, unravelled and so blown apart that life itself never made sense. I had just moved from a small town in South Alberta to small city on the outskirts of Edmonton, Alberta called Sherwood Park in Scona Glen Estates—a name that meant absolutely nothing to me at the time, just another stop in a long chain of moves from, institutions, and unfamiliar houses with unfamiliar faces spanning many provinces and a few U.S. States. But, by then, I had already learned that belonging was a fast fleeting thing, that “home” was just a word adults used before disappearing again in the under-recesses of society. The system I was caught in saw my name as a number and not my soul. I was another difficult file. (Although I lived with the one foster family I adored, The Wawrykos…my second family for life)

Another placement. Another face I’d never see again. Another… failed outcome, just waiting to happen. That’s how it always was. I never stayed anywhere long enough to grow roots, let alone relationships. The truth is, I didn’t even know what a friend was. I’d see other kids with their inside jokes and after-school plans, but that world wasn’t mine. I was always the new one, the different one, the one who didn’t belong. I was just trying to survive.

And honestly… not much has changed.

Even now, all these years later, I still don’t really have friends. Not the kind who stay. Not the kind who see past the story and stay anyway. Most people don’t know what to do with someone like me. My life is heavy. My past is hard. And when people find out about it—about the trauma, the labels, the years I spent moving and surviving instead of growing up—they get uncomfortable. They pull away. Some are kind at first, but eventually, they choose distance. They choose not to try.

People fear what they don’t understand. And I’ve come to learn that I make people afraid—not because I try to—but because I remind them that pain exists. That brokenness exists. That the world isn’t fair. And instead of leaning in, they leave.

It hurts.

It hurts more than I can ever explain.

Because no matter how much I try to be kind or open or strong, it feels like people only see the shadows of who I used to be. They don’t take the time to know who I am now. And so I live a life marked by absence. I walk through days with no one to call, no one to sit with, no one who truly knows me.

That’s what loneliness does—it doesn’t just whisper that you’re alone.

It convinces you that you’re unworthy of ever being known.

But, that year moving to Sherwood Park was a precursor for something that would change many things in the future as I was placed in a new school—Our Lady of Perpetual Help Catholic School. “OLPH”. It’s funny how certain names imprint themselves like ghostly fingerprints on the heart. For me, OLPH wasn’t just a school. It was the place where something quietly began to change, even though I didn’t yet have the words to name it.

It was in a small unknown teacher’s class, Mrs. Clare King’s Grade One classroom that the first thread of a miracle being woven by God in the background was quietly, patiently spun that would later unravel itself later.

I didn’t know it then—not really. How could I? I was a severely autistic little child, almost non-verbal, already carrying trauma so deep it felt like it lived in my bones. I was developmentally delayed, overwhelmed by learning disabilities, and lost inside social confusion that made even the simplest classroom task feel like trying to breathe in a burning building. Life didn’t just feel hard—it felt apocalyptic. Like walking through a relentless blizzard with no coat, no compass, blindfolded, while fireworks exploded around me and the ground trembled beneath my feet. Every moment was survival. Every day was a storm no one else could see. My mind worked in ways that my foster parents, social workers, psychologists or even teachers didn’t always understand. I melted down easily, couldn’t follow even the basic group instructions well, and often retreated into silence when the noise of the world overwhelmed my already-frayed senses. I wasn’t defiant—I was drowning in an ocean that was more of an abyss. But few people, if anyone even saw that.

But, Mrs. King did.

She didn’t see a burden or a problem to fix. She saw a child who just needed some room to breathe. She saw a spark worth protecting. In a sea of educators who were already overwhelmed and overburdened, Mrs. King made time—not just for lesson plans, but for me. Time to learn at my own pace. Time to process. Time to just be.

She noticed the things no one else did. That I didn’t know how to tie my shoes. That I often didn’t eat because I didn’t come to school with lunches at times (as at few times I lived with my biological father as we were too poor to eat), and with some foster homes things were just as bad (except The Wawrykos). This was the 80’s Thing’s were never simple. Also, I couldn’t sit still because my body didn’t feel safe anywhere. So she brought me lunch. She taught me to tie those stubborn laces with gentle hands and infinite patience, and she even helped me to read and start to speak. She didn’t raise her voice when I flinched. She didn’t sigh in frustration when I forgot simple instructions. She sat with me. And through her quiet, steady presence, she showed me that I wasn’t invisible. That I was worth noticing. But at the same time. I didn’t have any friends. I couldn’t make a single one, nor had that ability as I was always bullied, teased and sometimes I would just hide from the world at recess.

And then she did something no other teacher had dared to do.

She held me back a year.

Not as punishment. Not as failure. But as mercy.

Because she knew what most others didn’t: that I had been shuffled through too many homes, too many schools, too many broken transitions to ever have a real chance to stabilize. I was constantly playing catch-up in a game I never had the rules for. I wasn’t behind because I couldn’t learn—I was behind because life had never slowed down long enough for me to try.

Mrs. King gave me something no one else ever had… a second chance in a system that didn’t even believe in firsts. In a world where kids like me were thrown from one placement to the next like broken furniture no one had the tools to fix, she offered me something rare and almost impossible—a pause. A breath. A moment where I wasn’t being judged, labeled, or moved along. She held me back a year—not to punish, but to protect. She knew I was suffocating under the weight of everything I was never allowed to process. She knew that what I needed wasn’t to keep up—but to stop running.

She carved out space for me in a world that had only ever tried to erase me.

But now, in the world I live in today, that space keeps getting smaller—almost nonexistent. The story I carry, “this one”, the one written with the least amount of scars and survival, is often treated like it’s too much. Too dark. Too complicated. I work at a place where I once hoped I could share my testimony, to let others see the miracle behind the pain, how a hopeless situation had hope, how through resilience and endurance brought something more but also…, something else. But I was told—gently, honestly, yet firmly—that I couldn’t. That my story was again, too heavy. That it might scare others. That it wasn’t “appropriate.”

So I must now stay silenced. Censored. Erased.

Not because I want to—but because I have to. I’m not allowed to speak aloud the very thing that made me who I am. And it hurts. Deeply. Because it feels like the same erasure I once knew as a child—just quieter. More polite. But just as painful, and still, that deep sense of some sort, being rejected. Like I am most my life.

The truth is, carrying this story often keeps me on the outside of friendships too. People don’t know how to hold space for it. They keep their distance, unsure of what to say or afraid of saying the wrong thing. And so, instead of being seen, I am avoided. Instead of being invited in, I am left standing just outside the circle—watching others connect while I remain unseen, unheard.

My past is not something I chose. But it follows me like a shadow, closing doors before I even reach them. People choose not to know me—not really—because to know me would mean acknowledging a truth that makes them uncomfortable.

And so I live a kind of quiet loneliness, not because I want to—but because the world has told me, again and again, that my truth is too much.

Too much to speak.

Too much to share.

Too much to befriend.

And in that silence, I sometimes wonder if I’ve been erased all over again.

but back then…It was a small mercy wrapped in enormous sacrifice—a teacher willing to risk professional scrutiny, to stand up in a system that measured success by academic checkboxes and timelines. And all for a little girl who flinched at the sound of the bell, who sat with her hands clenched tight under the desk, who didn’t know how to ask for help in the language the world demanded. Of course, I didn’t know any of that then. I was six years old, and my life was one long sensory scream—too bright, too loud, too unpredictable. I didn’t understand politics or policies. I didn’t even understand why I had to keep moving. But somewhere deep inside me, buried beneath the survival instincts and shutdowns, I remember something more powerful than words.

I remember the feeling of being seen—and not flinched away from.

She didn’t look through me like so many others had. She didn’t send me away when I melted down. She didn’t label me “too much” and push me toward the door.

She stayed.

And in the middle of a world that had already written me off as damaged goods, that one act—that one person—became the thread I held onto in the darkness.

That feeling would carry me through the years to come.

Because I would eventually leave Mrs. King’s classroom not knowing whether our paths would ever cross again. I didn’t even get to say goodbye properly. And after that… life got worse before it got better. But her kindness, that brief flicker of light, stayed tucked inside me—like the last ember of a fire refusing to go out.

Between those transitory years, I was caught in a tangled storm of legal warfare—an endless tug-of-war between the Alberta government and my biological parents, bouncing from one foster home to another, group homes to an orphanage a few times and the Glenrose Children’s Rehabilitation hospital due to being severely autistic but after months later would be moved out an into another home. I became a name inked into court documents, a number in a docket, a child seen more by systems than by eyes that truly cared. There were hearings and appeals, angry voices in courtrooms, lawyers scribbling on yellow notepads while I sat quietly in the back—barely noticed, but completely affected. Adults argued over what to do with me, psychologists would give me many labels, doctors pumped my full of drugs and more, yet no one really asked me what I “needed”. My future was debated like a transaction, passed between legal hands like a complicated case file no one wanted to touch for too long.

There was yelling. Confusion. Betrayal. The aching silence after a judge’s decision that pulled me from one home to the next like a leaf in a whirlwind. I remember being shuffled through waiting rooms and interview offices, with social workers whose names changed faster than the seasons. I began to stop learning their names. What was the point? None of them stayed. None of them ever made promises they could keep.

Every time I thought something might stick—maybe this home, maybe this family—it crumbled. A foster parent would say I was “too much,” or “too sensitive,” or “too unpredictable.” It didn’t matter how hard I tried to be good. The moment I struggled, the placement would break. I was learning that love had conditions. That stability came with expiration dates. That being myself—autistic, anxious, traumatized—was something that needed to be hidden if I wanted to be safe. But hiding didn’t help either.

My autism added layers of complexity that the 1980s simply wasn’t ready—or willing—to understand. Back then, autism wasn’t discussed the way it is now. There was no public awareness, no spectrum-based understanding, and almost no compassion. Most people hadn’t even heard the word “autism,” (it was referred to as Asperger’s) and if they had, it was usually followed by words like “institution,” “mental illness,” or “uneducable.” I wasn’t seen as neurodivergent. I was seen as broken.

Instead of being supported in school or within the community, I was pathologized. Misunderstood. Misdiagnosed. And worst of all—discarded. My behaviours, which were rooted in sensory overload, anxiety, trauma, and a desperate need for routine, were interpreted as aggression, disrespect, or emotional instability. People didn’t see a child who was struggling. They saw a problem. An inconvenience.

And so I was redirected—not into therapy, not into community supports, but into institutions. I was placed in settings like the Glenrose Rehabilitation Hospital in Edmonton. Not because I was physically sick. Not because I had a medical condition. But because I had become “unplaceable” in the foster care system. I had been rejected too many times. Foster homes didn’t know what to do with me. So they sent me somewhere they thought could contain me.

But Glenrose wasn’t home. It wasn’t nurturing. It wasn’t a place of healing. It was sterile. Clinical. Cold.

I remember the smell of disinfectant and stale cafeteria trays. The hard linoleum floors that echoed too loudly when the staff walked by. I remember fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead like wasps, and the endless clicking of heels on tile. There were no bedtime stories. No goodnight kisses. No warmth. Just charts and assessments. Just being studied—watched for behaviours, documented for deficits.

In those institutional settings, I wasn’t treated like a child. I was a case. An object to be managed, subdued, restrained if necessary. The staff were not cruel, but they were trained to observe, not to comfort. I was given diagnoses and labels that followed me like a shadow: “high-risk,” “behavioural,” “oppositional,” “attachment disordered.” Each one stamped me with another reason why I couldn’t stay anywhere for long. Each one told the world I was someone to avoid.

I became a warning instead of a welcome.

And that doesn’t just go away—not even now.

That legacy still clings to me in ways most people can’t see. Especially when it comes to friendship. Because when you’ve spent your childhood being told—directly or indirectly—that you are too much, too complicated, too intense… you start to believe it. You start to see yourself as a burden before anyone else can. You start to hold back, hide parts of yourself, second-guess every conversation. You become painfully aware of how heavy your story sounds. How people flinch when they hear it. How their eyes change when they learn what you’ve lived through.

And so, even now—decades later—I still struggle to make and keep friends. Not because I don’t want connection, but because I’ve learned that not everyone can sit with the weight of a story like mine. People want lighthearted. They want “normal.” And sometimes, they don’t know how to respond when someone like me tells the truth.

They don’t know what to do with a survivor.

So they leave. Or they drift away. Or they stay quiet when I need them to reach out.

It’s not always their fault. But it still hurts.

Because at my core, I’m still that same child—longing to be known, but terrified of what will happen if I let someone close.

This is what trauma does. It doesn’t just bruise the past—it shapes the present. It builds invisible walls around your heart and whispers that if people knew the whole truth, they’d run.

And far too often… they do. They don’t want to know, they fear me because they fear my pain, my damaged life.

But beneath all those labels, there was still a child. A child who wanted to feel safe. A child who wanted someone to look at her and see more than a problem. I wanted to be chosen. I wanted someone—anyone—to look beyond the trauma and see that I wasn’t broken beyond repair. That I was still in there. Still trying.

What the world didn’t see in those years was how deeply I wanted to believe that somewhere, somehow, things could get better. That I wasn’t doomed to live out my life behind locked doors and labels. That someone would choose me not despite who I was, but because they were willing to understand who I was.

There was a time in my life when hope felt like a fairy tale—something written for other people, in softer stories, with gentler endings. For me, life wasn’t gentle. It was jagged. And it was real. I came from a place most people don’t come back from—a place where children are shuffled like paperwork, where trust is shattered before it ever has a chance to form, and where love is a word whispered in courtrooms but rarely lived out in homes.

When I was six years old, I didn’t really understand what love was. Not real love. Not the kind you see in storybooks or hear about in church. I didn’t know what it felt like to be safe in someone’s arms or to be chosen without condition. I didn’t even understand how the world worked, because my world had been shaped by something else—something darker.

You see, I had already lived through things that most kids my age couldn’t imagine. I had been moved from home to home, school to school, never staying long enough to unpack a suitcase—if I even had one. I was hurting, confused, and afraid, though I didn’t always have the words to explain it. The pain I carried lived mostly in silence—in the way I flinched when people got too close, or how I didn’t know how to look someone in the eyes. It was the kind of darkness you don’t see with your eyes, but you feel it inside, like a storm that never stops.

Because of my autism and trauma, the adults around me didn’t always understand me. And when people don’t understand something, they often label it instead. I was called “high-risk,” “unplaceable,” “too much.” Decisions about my life were made by strangers holding clipboards, not by people who knew my heart. I didn’t have parents. I had files. And deep down, I began to believe what the world seemed to be saying: that I was broken, and maybe I didn’t belong anywhere.

I didn’t know that God loved me.

Not yet.

Not in a way I could feel or name.

But looking back now, I see He was there the whole time—in the tiny sparks of kindness, in the teacher who noticed me, in the stranger who made a phone call, in the moments when I almost gave up and somehow didn’t. I didn’t recognize it then, but God’s love was quietly moving through the cracks of my brokenness. He didn’t wait for me to be “fixed” before showing up. He came into the darkness, sat with me in it, and began gently pointing me toward the light.

By all earthly measures, I was a hopeless case. Hope wasn’t a word in my vocabulary of life at the time.

And yet—somewhere in that wilderness of abandonment and institutions, something else lived beneath the grief. A flicker. A whisper. Something stubborn. Something sacred. That something was hope. Not loud, not grand. But steady. Fragile, yes—but impossible to extinguish. It was the thing that carried me through the endless shuffle of courtrooms, group homes, and emergency placements. Through the white walls of hospitals and the cold silence of nights without family. That hope—faint as it was—became my light in a world where no one else seemed to carry one for me.

But it wasn’t just hope alone that kept me going.

It was God.

Even when I didn’t understand Him. Even when I was angry. Even when I couldn’t pray. He was there. Watching. Waiting. Guiding.

And when the time came, He placed the right people at the right crossroads—teachers, mentors, strangers with unexpected compassion. And eventually, He gave me the courage to reclaim my story. To write it not from a place of bitterness, but from a place of resurrection.

That’s what my book I wrote “Light of Winter’s Heart” became for me.

Not just a book. Not just a novel. But a testimony.

A story born from the ashes of my own. A small and bit of a semi-fictional reflection of a very real and brutal past—told through symbols and characters that carried my wounds, my prayers, my unanswered questions. It’s the voice I never had as a child. The light I wished someone had shone into my darkness. It’s the miracle of finding beauty where there was once only brokenness.

I wrote Light of Winter’s Heart to tell the truth—not just about the pain, but about the God who carried me through it. About the quiet kind of faith that doesn’t shout, but stays. About the kind of resilience that doesn’t come from within, but is gifted from above when you think you have nothing left.

The story of the book is set in 1989—the same year everything changed for me in real life. The year I nearly gave up. The year I ran. The year I was going to be sent to juvenile detention because the world had run out of places for me.

But it was also the year I was adopted. The year someone finally said, “I choose you.” The year God made a way where there was none.

For many, 1989 was just another year.

But for me?

It was the year my miracle began. The year God made things happen.

I had just moved from British Columbia, transferred out of a group home setting into yet another temporary foster placement in Edmonton for the Christmas holidays. At that point, holidays held no warmth. Christmas lights were meaningless flickers in windows that weren’t mine. Trees were dressed in decorations I would never help hang. Carols played in houses that didn’t echo with my laughter. Christmas, for me, wasn’t festive. It was just another reminder of how different my life was. Another house. Another table I wasn’t really invited to. I didn’t expect to stay long—and I didn’t. I didn’t have friends, nor family. It was just me and God.

After a traumatic incident during that winter—one of the darkest moments of my life—I ran away from my foster placement, overwhelmed, panicked, and feeling completely unseen. I wandered through the freezing Alberta cold in the middle of a blizzard, lost not only in geography but in spirit. I nearly froze to death that night. And in many ways, a part of me spiritually did as well. The part that still hoped someone would come rescue me without being asked. But a spiritual encounter saved me and changed my life and path.

Following that event, I was placed in the Atonement Home in January 1989—a faith-based group care facility operated by Catholic Social Services and the Nuns of the Atonement. It was meant to be a temporary placement, a stopgap, but something shifted inside me there. I had been through too much to keep waiting for adults to fix things. For the first time, I realized that no one was coming to save me unless I fought to be saved. So I did something most twelve-year-olds would never dream of doing: I challenged the system itself.

I began the legal process of pursuing what had never been done before in Alberta—becoming the province’s first open adoption case. Open adoption, at the time, was virtually unheard of in our province’s foster care system. Everything was closed, sealed, anonymous. But I didn’t want to vanish into the system like so many others. I didn’t want to be another lost name in a government file. I wanted to know who was adopting me. I wanted to be seen. I wanted the truth.

I initiated legal proceedings against the Alberta government. Not because I was brave, but because I had run out of choices. The alternative was being sent to the Yellowhead Youth Centre (YYC)—a juvenile detention facility in Edmonton where children deemed “unplaceable” or “too high-risk” were sent. It was never supposed to be a home, yet for too many kids like me, it could have become the end of the road.

I was twelve years old. No child should ever have to fight for the right to be loved, and with all I had gone through, “love” was a foreign concept. No child should have to prove they deserve a family. But that was the reality I lived—and the fight I chose.

During this pivotal moment, my story began to spread. I was invited to appear on a television segment called Wednesday’s Child, a national initiative created in partnership with child welfare agencies to profile children awaiting adoption. The segment aired regularly, featuring vulnerable children and youth whose cases had become critical. They shared their hopes, their dreams, and in between the lines, the heartbreak of wanting to be chosen.

It was terrifying. Standing in front of a camera, trying to look brave when inside I was shaking. Speaking into a microphone about what it meant to be forgotten. I felt like I was laying bare every wound I carried. But sometimes, miracles begin in the unlikeliest places.

That broadcast became the spark.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, staff members from my old school—OLPH—saw the segment. The school secretary and librarian recognized my name, my voice, my face. And they remembered someone who had once cared about me deeply, Mrs. Clare King.

They told her about the show. About me.

And the rest? The rest was the beginning of the miracle.

As fate would have it, someone saw that episode. But not just anyone—the someone. The someone who had once held space for me when the world had none to give. It wasn’t a social worker or a government official. It wasn’t someone from a placement agency or a legal firm. It was the people who had once been on the periphery of my story—secretaries and librarians at my old school. Ordinary women with extraordinary memories. They remembered the quiet girl from Mrs. King’s classroom—the one who used to sit with her head down, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeves. The one who flinched at loud sounds and couldn’t always speak in full sentences. They remembered me.

And they remembered someone else too.

They reached out to David and Clare King, the teacher who had once been the only adult to truly see me—not just my behaviours or diagnoses, but the heart beneath all of it. The teacher who had packed me extra snacks, taught me how to tie my shoes, and gave me more than just a spot in her class—she gave me dignity. That phone call, made by people who could have easily dismissed the broadcast as someone else’s burden, changed everything.

The reconnection wasn’t instantaneous. This wasn’t a fairy tale. It was tentative, careful, full of hesitation on both sides. There were letters. Phone calls. Carefully worded conversations with social workers and legal representatives. There were doubts—about whether the system would allow it, about whether I would even let it happen. I had been through too much to trust easily. They had lives of their own, and I was a complicated child with years of trauma strapped invisibly to my back.

But slowly, something began to shift. A door opened where all others had slammed shut.

Over the months that followed, paperwork was filed, background checks completed, home assessments done. It was bureaucratic and clinical—but behind all the forms and signatures, a story of profound hope was unfolding. There were fears. Honest ones. Could they take on a child so deeply bruised by the system? Would I reject them before they could embrace me? Would the courts interfere? Would the government approve an adoption so unconventional, so late in the game, and so publicly challenged?

There were tears, too. Mine. Theirs. Tears of exhaustion. Of hesitation. Of longing. Of love, aching to be real but still waiting on permission from strangers in suits.

And there was the ever-present threat of the Yellowhead Youth Centre. My clock was ticking. If things didn’t move fast enough—if just one more door slammed, one more judge could have ruled the wrong way—I would be sent away. Locked into a juvenile detention facility not because I had committed a crime, but because the world didn’t know what else to do with children like me. Children too hard to place. Too complicated. Too broken.

Time was running out. But God, in all his wisdom, like usual, made All Things possible.

And then—just when it felt like the whole world was going to fail me one final time—the miracle happened.

Mrs. King—Clare—and her husband David stepped into the chaos like a lighthouse in a storm. They didn’t just offer a home. They offered family. Real, unshakable, imperfect, healing family. Not because it was easy. Not because the system made it simple. But because they believed that love was worth the risk. That I was worth the risk.

Weeks before the government was set to send me away for good, my adoption was finalized. I remember sitting in the courtroom on the day it became official. I didn’t cry—I had used up most of my tears by then. But there was a stillness in me I’d never felt before. A kind of fragile peace. I was no longer floating. I had landed.

It wasn’t the kind of adoption people like to talk about in feel-good news stories. It was messy, raw, and complex. I didn’t suddenly become a well-behaved, easy child. I still had triggers. I still had nights where I wanted to run, where the walls closed in and the past came roaring back in nightmares and sudden flinches. But they didn’t give up on me.

There were nights when Clare sat with me in silence because I couldn’t speak. Days when David gave me space without making me feel like a burden. Times when my behaviour tested every boundary, not because I wanted to push them away—but because I needed to know if they’d stay.

And they did.

They stayed when others ran. They fought for me when I couldn’t even lift my own hands. They showed me what it meant to be claimed—not out of obligation, but out of love.

Just like the character “Clara” in “Light of Winter’s Heart“, I too carried the weight of grief and longing, packed deep into the quiet corners of my soul. That book was born from the winters of my youth, from the cold days and colder nights when I wondered if I would ever feel safe. It’s the story of a girl who didn’t believe the world would ever catch her. And then, someone did.

Through Clare’s love. Through David’s strength. Through faith that flickered even in my darkest places. Through the bravery of ordinary people who made one phone call. Through the persistence of light.

today – Clare and David are my parents. My only parents. I love them. I am blessed and I thank them for everything. With God’s plan, they saved my life. Things could have been worse, if I hadn’t taken steps and listened, had faith, hope…and followed God’s will.

Today, I look back and I see every scar as a map that led me here. Every detour, every rejection, every cold night and courtroom bench—somehow, it all led me to that moment when a teacher and her husband chose me. Not because they had to. But because they wanted to.

And although this story, is a “simplified” story of a small blip of my life that is the “easy” part I talk about (that’s right, an easy part), this isn’t the worst of what I’ve had to endure in my life…

But this is my adoption story, this is the story of how God changed my life, and how I beat the odds.

I went from a hopeless situation where I thought all would be lost, to where hope because possible because with God, All things are possible.

But sadly, this is a story I’m not allowed to share—not really. My testimony of hope, faith, and resilience in the darkest of times is something I can only speak quietly, in hidden corners like this one. I can’t share it openly with others, not at work, not in groups, not in the spaces where stories are supposed to matter. We live in a bubble-wrapped world now, where anything too real, too raw, is considered too much.

And I’ve already lost too many friends for being honest. For telling even fragments of this truth.

I know I’ll likely lose more.

Because people get scared. Scared of my pain. Scared of the damage they think I am. Scared of what they don’t understand.

But despite everything… despite the silence, the fear, the rejection… I still carry this story. I still live it. And I still believe it matters.

Because this story is mine. And it’s not just about what I’ve survived.

It’s about the light that somehow never went out.

And this was the easy part, and God saw me through it.

So, do I believe you miracles now?

I hope so, because I absolutely do. Because I didn’t just live one.

I am one.

Echoes of Silence: The Invisible Struggle for Inclusion and Understanding

Posted on 8 January 2025by Sarah King

In the quiet shadows of our daily existence, many of us silently bear struggles that go unnoticed by those around us. These challenges are not confined to specific locations or moments; rather, they persistently thread through every aspect of our lives, casting a persistent hues of isolation that others find hard to understand. As an individual grappling with a complex array of mental health issues, varying degrees of social developmental delays, autism, and ADHD, I face these obstacles every day with my interactions with people around me. The barriers I encounter are not merely physical but are intricately woven into the fabric of social exchanges and personal self-awareness.

Over recent years, I have become increasingly aware of how these difficulties have begun to impact my interactions with others. Particularly, I’ve noticed an increasing tendency for people to avoid me, whether in conversation or physical interaction. This avoidance seems to stem from everything ranging from my verbal expressions and actions to the more subtle cues like my mood and behaviours. While I am sometimes perceptive to certain social nuances, there are many instances where I find myself out of step with those around me. This discrepancy not only deepens my sense of solitude but also complicates my attempts to connect and engage meaningfully with the world around me. As I navigate this complex landscape, I am continually learning and adapting, albeit with significant challenges, trying to bridge the gap between how I am perceived and how I wish to be understood.

I also find it increasingly more interesting that I can express my thoughts and feelings via written word than spoken, through mediums such as this than in person as it’s less judgmental.

In Professional Shadows: A Silent Disregard

Have you ever sat at a lunch table, trying to join a conversation, only to feel as if your words barely make a ripple? Many of us have been there—our attempts at small talk meet with brief responses, or worse, apparent annoyance. It’s not just the struggle to be heard; it’s the sinking feeling that what we have to say doesn’t truly matter to those around us, and then are often ignored and then left in sitting in silence as you drink tea or coffee, eating that meal.

Consider the times you’ve offered suggestions in meetings, or around the table or room. How often are they passed over or deemed irrelevant, unless tightly aligned with your specific role or expertise? This selective engagement can make anyone feel invisible, as if our broader contributions are undervalued. For those of us navigating the complexities of neurodiversity, like autism, social anxiety and isolation struggles, these challenges are compounded by difficulties in reading social cues. We might choose to remain silent, second-guessing our understanding of the conversation’s flow, which only deepens our sense of isolation. Not all of us have the ‘gift of gab’ or outgoing extroverted personality. Sometimes, it’s also best to ‘put up, and shut up’.

And what about when we extend a hand to help? Too often, offers to assist or collaborate are rebuffed, leaving us to wonder why our intentions are misunderstood. For those who are naturally kind-hearted and eager to support others, such rejections can be particularly painful, pushing us toward solitude as a refuge from the discomfort of social rebuffs just because we are different from others.

Many of us, especially when feeling overlooked or misunderstood, might find ourselves explaining our actions or thoughts more frequently than others. This isn’t complaining—it’s an attempt to bridge the communication gap, to make ourselves understood. Yet, this can greatly exhaust our peers, leading them to see our explanations as nuisances rather than legitimate attempts at clarity, sometimes our perceptions, and our understandings may not jive with what actually happened but how we handle the situation in the end is what makes it more clear. We all need to show patience, we are only human.

If any of this resonates with you, know that you are not alone. These are the commonalities we share as I face these myself at times in my own life. These experiences, while deeply personal, are also universal in many ways. They speak to the broader challenge of fostering a truly inclusive and empathetic environment—be it in the workplace or any social setting. Sadly for the majority, this is what keeps people in states of depression, states of isolation, is when they feel that they don’t fit in, don’t belong, are in the way or that they simply are ‘just a body’.

The Complexity of Human Connection

Navigating social interactions often feels like traversing a labyrinth without a map. For those of us with neurodiverse conditions such as autism, social anxiety, ADHD and the like, the challenge is magnified by our intrinsic differences in understanding and processing mental, physical and memory social cues. Neurodiverse individuals often perceive and interpret social signals differently from neurotypical people. This can lead to misunderstandings and social missteps that seem minor to others but are significant and impactful to us.

For instance, my own struggles with memory and processing speed frequently lead to social faux pas that can frustrate or confuse those around me, especially those who are in direct contact with me. Trust me, ask them! I’m sure I’ve caused my share of problems and they would agree that I can be difficult when talking to. Every conversation feels like a minefield where a forgotten detail or a missed social cue could lead to alienation. This often results in a retreat into my own thoughts, where I’m left to dissect what went wrong, replaying scenarios over and over in an attempt to understand the social dynamics that elude me.

Social gatherings are particularly daunting. While others seem to flow effortlessly into conversations and group dynamics, forming connections with ease, I find myself out of sync. It’s like watching an orchestra play a piece I’ve never learned; everyone else knows their part and how it fits into the whole, but I am stumbling, trying to find the rhythm. This dissonance is jarring and often leads me to avoid social situations altogether, which only exacerbates feelings of isolation and loneliness.

The impact of these experiences extends beyond social gatherings and affects every aspect of daily life. The constant anxiety and stress from trying to fit into social molds I don’t understand take a significant toll on mental health. Many individuals, myself included, find themselves dealing with depression, which can make even basic self-care and household tasks challenging. The effort required to simply get through a day of pretending or trying to ‘be normal‘ can be utterly draining, leaving little energy for things like cleaning, personal hygiene, or engaging in ‘happy joy’ hobbies. But sometimes the opposite can have the same effect.

This depression isn’t just about feeling sad; it’s a profound sense of exhaustion and disconnection from the world. The mental load of decoding social interactions and the continuous sense of failure in social settings can make one’s personal space—like a home (especially for me)—feel like a prison of sorts. Here, the loneliness and the reminders of daily struggles loom large, making it difficult to find the motivation to maintain regular routines or care for oneself.

The dynamics of group interactions and the concept of belonging are complex for everyone, but for those of us who struggle with social cues, these dynamics are often overwhelming. Belonging requires mutual understanding and acceptance, which can be hard to achieve when your way of communicating and understanding the world is fundamentally different from that of others around you.

In light of these challenges, it’s crucial for both individuals and society to strive for a deeper understanding and more supportive structures that can accommodate neurodiverse needs. Education about neurodiversity, autism and similar conditions can help bridge some of the gaps in understanding. For those of us living with these challenges, finding communities and resources that resonate with our experiences, can offer support and validation, but at the same time, trying to ‘get’ to that state is also just as tasking in finding those communities to fit into as our own personalities struggle due to extrinsic and intrinsic factors.

Ultimately, by fostering environments where differences are not just acknowledged but genuinely understood and appreciated, we can begin to build a world where everyone, regardless of their neurotype, can feel like they truly belong.

Finding Friends: Navigating a Mismatched World

Forging friendships when there’s a mismatch between one’s chronological age and mental or emotional age presents a unique set of challenges, especially for someone with mental complications. For individuals like myself, who may are older yet find a deeper connection with the simple, untarnished joys typically enjoyed by younger people, the task of fitting in can feel insurmountable. Adults naturally anticipate interactions and shared interests that reflect more mature, complex life experiences—expectations that clash with a preference for straightforward, pure pleasures. A pure example in my case is that I like spending time, writing, watching cartoons, I have stuffed animals, and still interact with my “inner child”, where as I can still do “adulting” like pay bills, rent and buy fancy things I cannot afford (and make poor decisions about it later). I am not into the “clubbing” or bar scene, and don’t get me into the “dating” world as that baffles me. But, honestly, I just don’t know how to make friends.

As an “INFJ Advocate” personality type, my personality compels me toward deep, meaningful connections, but the nuances of everyday social interactions can sometimes escape me. This Myers-Briggs personality type is known for its empathy, idealism, and introspective nature, all qualities that can enrich friendships profoundly. However, these same traits can complicate social interactions when the intuitive understanding of others does not extend to understanding how to navigate the practical aspects of those relationships. For someone living with autism, the additional layer of struggling to interpret social cues can make it even more challenging to decipher what friendship looks like and how to maintain it. It shows that my compassion, kindness and caring nature, tends to get in the way of logical rational thinking which can get me into trouble and thus it causes many people around me to take advantage of that and I don’t know any better.

When it comes to forming and nurturing relationships, it often feels like I must suppress parts of my true self to blend into the expected social norms. This performance involves putting on various personality and social masks—hiding real feelings and emulating behaviours that are deemed socially acceptable. This ongoing masquerade is taxing and does little to assuage the loneliness that comes from not fully connecting with others on a genuine level. Each interaction where I must perform rather than be authentic leaves me feeling more isolated, not just from the people around me, but from my own sense of self. It’s like being a “Phantom of the Opera” shipped with “Superman” but still being “Jack Frost”. Not many will get that reference.

This struggle is intensified by the frequent internal narrative that frames me as both the problem and the potential solution in social settings. This can be a heavy burden to carry, as it places the onus of social success or failure squarely on my shoulders, perpetuating a cycle of self-blame and frustration when relationships do not flourish. Despite my best efforts, the outcome is often a reinforced sense of otherness, reinforcing the walls that compartmentalize me into solitude.

Navigating these challenges is a continuous process of trial and error, where each social interaction can either be a step toward connection or a retreat into the comforting shadows of solitude. My journey involves learning to balance the innate desire for deep connections with the practical skills needed to interact in a world that often operates on a different wavelength. It’s about finding the courage to occasionally let the masks fall away and hoping that in doing so, the right people—those who can appreciate the unfiltered version of myself—will recognize and cherish the genuine person beneath.

In sharing these experiences, I hope to connect with others who feel similarly misplaced and to remind them that they are not alone in this struggle. It is my aim to foster understanding and empathy, not just for myself but for anyone who finds the social world a challenging maze to navigate. But for now, I must where masks in both my daily life, at work, in my family and with friends. All to simply protect myself from harm.

Suffering in Silence: The Cost of Normalcy

Navigating daily life with barriers of mental health conditions like social anxiety, PTSD, ADHD, and many others introduces a complex array of challenges, and for me being autistic managing sensory sensitivities to confronting social misunderstandings poses other complexities. These issues, though deeply personal, resonate with many who find themselves in similar situations. Among these challenges, auditory sensitivities and behaviours like stimming are often the most misunderstood. For myself, despite the necessity for hearing aids due to degenerative hearing loss and auditory processing disorder, the addition of earmuffs might appear confusing to onlookers. This dual adaptation is not a preference but a critical necessity; while hearing aids enhance sound to aid hearing, they can also amplify painful high frequencies and cause audio distortions that lead to vertigo. The earmuffs serve to dampen overwhelming noises, striking a balance and creating a manageable auditory environment. Although for myself this is new, it’s now how I have to manage my life. Although when I am at home, my place is now a silent refuge.

The reasons behind stimming or fidgeting, or why someone might be overwhelmed by sensory inputs like bright lights or loud sounds, are not widely grasped. These behaviours are not choices but essential coping mechanisms for those with sensory processing issues accompanying autism and PTSD. Yet, the perception persists that these necessary adaptations are merely excuses or overreactions, adding undue judgment to already challenging lives.

For those of us living and functioning in environments where Christian values are placed and where such as the Fruits of the Spirit are preached—but not always practiced—the gap between preached ideals and reality can be disheartening. These values—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control—are meant to guide behaviour towards inclusivity and understanding, yet they often fall short when it comes to embracing and supporting the neurodiverse community. Those I know are probably going to give me heck for this too but, this is how I see it;

Love is often discussed as unconditional, yet it can feel contingent upon conforming to certain behaviours or hiding one’s true self. This refers to unconditional love that goes beyond affection or fondness. Love is supposed to be a selfless, enduring, and sacrificial concern for the well-being of others.
Joy remains elusive for many who feel disconnected or misunderstood by their communities. This is supposed to be a sense of inner gladness regardless of circumstances. It is deeper and more constant than happiness, which is often dependent on external situations.
Peace is touted, yet the environment can still be rife with judgments and exclusion over differing beliefs. Peace is supposed to represent tranquility and harmony in personal, relational, and communal aspects of life. It involves a sense of contentment and well-being that comes from trusting in God’s plan.
Patience is essential but rarely extended to those who require more time to navigate social interactions due to neurological differences. Often translated as “long-suffering,” it involves the ability to endure discomfort and trials without responding in negative ways. It’s about being slow to anger and enduring patiently under the provocation.
Kindness and goodness are advocated, yet often, actions do not align with these preachings, especially towards those who navigate the world differently. This involves being considerate, generous, and friendly to others. It reflects a spirit of compassion and sympathy towards the needs and feelings of others, while goodness entails the desire to be virtuous and moral in one’s conduct. It’s closely linked to doing what is right and beneficial not just for oneself but also for others.
Gentleness should reflect in our actions and interactions but is often overshadowed by impatience and misunderstanding. Also known as meekness, it is not weakness; rather, it is strength under control. It involves humility and thankfulness towards God, and polite, restrained behaviour towards others.
Faithfulness involves trusting in the good intentions of others, a practice that should be universal but is sometimes only selectively applied. This involves being reliable, trustworthy, and loyal in all relationships, including one’s commitment to God. It also encompasses faith in God’s promises, trusting in His steadfastness.
Self-control is about more than personal restraint; it’s about actively choosing to embrace diversity and extend grace. This is the ability to control one’s emotions, desires, and actions, particularly in difficult situations. It implies a mastery over one’s will and an exercise of restraint.

In an ideal world, the Christian virtues of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control—collectively known as the ‘Fruits of the Spirit‘—would guide our every interaction. However, the reality often falls short, particularly in how we engage with individuals facing mental health challenges, autism, or disabilities. Despite these teachings, people with disabilities frequently encounter barriers that stem from a lack of understanding and acceptance, contradicting the very essence of these Christian values.

In the professional world, these individuals might face indifference rather than the patience and kindness they deserve. Socially, the joy and peace promised by Christian fellowship can feel inaccessible due to the exclusions they experience. This gap between doctrine and practice not only affects their quality of life but also challenges the integrity of Christian witness.

Why do these gaps exist? The reasons are complex and varied—from cultural influences that prioritize individualism over community to discomfort with difference that leads to exclusion. Additionally, a lack of real understanding about disabilities and mental health can lead to fear and prejudice, further hindering genuine inclusive practice.

As Christians, we are called not just to believe in the virtues of the Fruits of the Spirit but to actively practice them, creating a more inclusive, understanding, and supportive environment. This means stepping beyond our comfort zones, confronting our prejudices, and making a concerted effort to learn about and from those who navigate life differently. It’s about aligning our actions with our values, demonstrating that the love, kindness, and gentleness we preach are not just ideals, but practices we live by every day.

This reflection isn’t just call to awareness but for all of us to truly embody these ‘spiritual fruits’ and ensure that our communities are places where everyone, regardless of their abilities or challenges, can feel truly valued and included. The necessity to mask one’s natural tendencies to fit into societal norms is a profound and shared struggle among those with autism. This masking, a survival strategy, not only costs individuals their authenticity but also perpetuates feelings of isolation and loneliness. This dual existence—maintaining a socially acceptable façade while suppressing one’s true identity—is exhausting and unsustainable, and why I am tired at a long day with people. The continuous effort to appear ‘normal’ (for others) erodes joy and a sense of self, silencing the genuine voices that long to be understood and accepted.

But it should be know that this also pushes others away. My ‘normal’ is not your, ‘normal’ but at the same time, I am just as equally guilty of not following this myself.

A Glimpse into the Ideal World

In an ideal world, we wouldn’t place barriers around people based on their differences. Whether it’s mental health issues, disabilities, or just plain old human quirks, these shouldn’t be reasons for exclusion or disdain. Yes, the world is not perfect—far from it. We’re navigating through a landscape dotted with challenges and, let’s face it, a fair amount of sin. But amidst all this, one truth stands clear: we are all human. Seriously, get over it!

We really need to chill out and cut back on the hate. It’s like everyone decided to crank the drama dial to max and forgot how to turn it down. Imagine if we all just took a moment to breathe, look around, and realize that everyone else is trying just as hard to get through this thing called life.

So here’s a thought: Let’s stop making life harder for each other. Wouldn’t it be wildly revolutionary if we simply started treating each other with the basic respect and dignity every person deserves? Let’s drop the judgments and start boosting the kindness. Who knows, we might just find out that we like this version of humanity a lot better.

To wrap this up with a profound yet straightforward thought: In the midst of our chaotic, beautifully flawed existence, let’s remember to embrace our shared humanity with open arms and maybe, just maybe, sprinkle a little humor along the way. After all, if we can’t laugh at ourselves every once in a while, we’re definitely doing it all wrong. Here’s to hoping we can find a way to turn down the drama, turn up the decency, and maybe, just make the world a slightly better place to live.

For the love of God people…

We’re all Human. Learn to just be.

Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.
~Leo F. Buscaglia, “Making love felt,” Born for Love: Reflections on Loving, 1992

A Journey of Faith: Between Miracles and Questions

Posted on 20 September 2024by Sarah King

My early beliefs about God were shaped by a whirlwind of experiences that felt like a cosmic game of roulette, where my life hung by a thread and miracles were my only saving grace. You see, I’m not your average human—born intersex, a chimera of sorts, I came into this world with a unique perspective. There were moments when I should have left this mortal coil, yet somehow, I survived against all odds. These brush-ins with the supernatural sparked the glimmer of faith in me. But as I moved from one foster home to another—over 30 by the time I hit my teenage years—I began to wonder why a loving God would put me through such relentless trials.

Each home brought with it a new flavor of belief. Some were steeped in Christianity, some found solace in Buddhism or New Age philosophies, while others danced with the mystical. Some homes were steeped in the warmth of faith, and others were as cold as a winter’s night. I was a kid, soaking it all in, quietly navigating a maze of ideologies that often left me more confused than enlightened. It was a chaotic symphony of beliefs that played in the background of my life, offering little comfort amidst the turbulence.

I was baptized as a baby, marking the start of my journey as a Christian, yet my path has always been riddled with questions. The verses from the Bible that resonate with me—like Proverbs 3:5-6 and Isaiah 41:13—whisper truths about trust and comfort, yet the essence of love and God’s will remain shrouded in mystery. Why does it feel like common sense is as elusive as a unicorn in a tutu? Why am I here after defying death five times? The questions swirl like leaves in a chaotic autumn storm, each one pulling me in different directions.

Over time, my beliefs have evolved, heavily influenced by the people I’ve met and the experiences I’ve faced—especially those near-death encounters that turned my worldview upside down. They served as both a curse and a blessing, opening my eyes to the fragility of life and the profound connection we all share. Yet, they also magnified my doubts, leaving me grappling with an understanding of God that often feels out of reach.

My journey has been anything but linear. It’s like walking multiple paths with only one set of feet, each fork in the road presenting its own set of challenges. My connection with others has been impacted, and often impeded, as I navigate this tangled web of existence. The loss of my daughter further complicated my faith, igniting a fire of anger while simultaneously dimming my hope. In moments of despair, I question the very fabric of belief and the nature of God’s love.

But even amid the chaos, I’ve come to believe that kindness, compassion, and understanding are the threads that bind us all. In a world desperate for connection, we must learn to show faith and hope, even when the path seems obscured. After all, isn’t that the essence of humanity? To strive for more, to embrace the absurd, and to seek understanding even in the face of the inexplicable?

As I reflect on this complex journey, I find solace in the idea that perhaps my struggles are not in vain. They might just be the forge in which my spirit is shaped, creating a tapestry of resilience that speaks to the strength of the human experience. Through it all, I strive to find the light amid the shadows, crafting a belief system that, while imperfect, is uniquely my own.