I need to be honest. I don’t like revealing my struggles.
There’s this thing called perfectionism that gets in the way. I’m not even honest with myself at times. If a problem starts to simmer in my life, I put a lid on the pot, walk away, and hope it doesn’t boil over.
But, inevitably, it does. And it’s never pretty.
Last year, I met a friend for coffee at our favorite cafe. I was looking forward to sipping my macchiato and enjoying our usual conversations about the beautiful things in life – how God was moving, new opportunities, and upcoming vacations.
It was going well until she asked me about a struggle. Not just any old struggle, but a sin pattern I’d been dealing with for at least half a decade.
My heart raced. My head spun with a flurry of ideas about how to avoid telling her the truth: I had wrestled with it that very morning.
I shifted in my stool and looked out the window. The moment felt like an eternity.
What would she think if I told her it was still a problem? I wanted to say I’d made progress – that I’d conquered it and moved on. After all, I already felt like a fraud for claiming to love God and have this in my life. I didn’t need someone else condemning me, too.
I was at a fork in the road. Would I sustain the secrecy with a half-truth or invite my friend into the raw essence of my hurting?
With a deep breath I filled my lungs with courage and let out the words.
Hard words. Real words. Honest words.