The Eyes Beyond My Face

A Journey Through Time

Amber had recently begun studying her habits, analyzing the countless decisions she made or avoided each day. The realization hit her hard-she had been playing the victim in her own life. No one was coming to save her, and, deep down, she knew it. Her life felt like an endless cycle of letting go of control, only to scramble to reclaim it moments later. Maybe, just maybe, she should give up the fight and simply exist, she thought. After all, wasn't that easier?

But when she tried-when she relinquished control, if only for a fleeting moment-life slapped her back harder than she expected, like an arrow released with no aim, spiraling wildly. The pressure from corporate America had tied her down, and she could feel it in the rigid way she spoke, the forced smiles she wore. Worse still was the silent brutality of the healthcare field, where her efforts felt invisible, her voice unheard.

There she was, standing at the crossroads again, feeling like she was right back where she started. Or so that little voice in her head kept whispering.

But was it true? Was she really at square one? Or had she overlooked the subtle strength she had gained, the lessons she had carried forward? It gnawed at her, this idea that perhaps she wasn't as stuck as she felt. Perhaps this wasn't a return to the beginning, but a chance to choose a different path forward.

Amber stared at her reflection in the window, caught between the woman she had been and the woman she longed to be. For the first time, she realized that saving herself didn't mean controlling everything; it meant trusting herself to weather whatever came next.

Amber had always been the "good child." It wasn't a title anyone in her family gave her; it was one she silently accepted and enforced. Growing up, she didn't dare cause ripples. She kept her feelings bottled up, knowing that expressing them might bring more attention than she wanted. There were countless times when she sat at the dinner table, her voice barely audible as her siblings spoke over her, her parents too tired or distracted to listen. She remembered being about 8 years old, sitting on the porch with her diary, scribbling furiously while everyone else inside argued. She wrote down her frustrations, her sadness, and her questions-yet she knew even then that no one would ever read her words.

It was easier that way, she told herself. If no one listened, no one could hurt her. Over the years, that internal silence became her comfort, her shield. She learned to smile on cue, to act as if everything was perfectly fine. But the truth was, she was drowning in her own unspoken emotions.

As a teenager, she channeled her unresolved pain into saving others. Her friends leaned on her, sought her advice, and spilled their secrets. She was the fixer-the one who always had a plan, always knew what to do. It gave her a sense of control when everything else felt chaotic. Amber thought that if she couldn't fix herself, at least she could fix everyone else. It was an escape, a way to ignore her own issues by focusing on the brokenness around her.

By the time she reached adulthood, Amber had perfected the art of appearing strong. She took on others' burdens with such intensity that she left little room to examine her own. In the corporate world, this made her a model employee-always dependable, always in control. But the more she suppressed her own pain, the more suffocated she felt. She began to resent the constraints she had placed on herself, feeling trapped in a cycle of pretending everything was fine.

When Amber finally hit a breaking point, it was like staring at her younger self in the mirror-the girl who never felt heard, the girl who hid behind smiles and distractions. It wasn't enough to save others anymore. She had to save herself, but not in the way she once thought. The idea of self-reliance-of being her own god, responsible for everything-was crumbling under the weight of her unresolved trauma.

For the first time in her life, Amber realized that saving herself meant something entirely different now. It wasn't about shutting people out or pretending she had it all together. It was about surrendering to something greater than herself. She could no longer be the hero of her own story. Only God could be that.

Her journals were now filled with prayers, cries for deliverance, and verses that reminded her she wasn't alone. Surrendering was terrifying, but she was beginning to understand that true strength didn't come from control-it came from letting go.