The Day I Died…

I remember the day I died.

It wasn’t quiet.
It wasn’t gentle.
And it wasn’t sad.

It was the day I was rescued.

On November 16, 2025, I walked into a church for the first time in years and took a seat in the back—where you go when you’re not sure you belong, but you show up anyway. My son sat beside me. My sister. My niece. I wasn’t there with answers or expectations. I wasn’t looking for a moment.

I was just there.

We worshipped. We listened. And then the pastor asked us to bow our heads and close our eyes.

That’s when everything shifted.

He spoke plainly. Boldly. Without performance. And then he asked a question that cut straight through me:
If you’re ready to go public with your faith—raise your hand.

Before my mind could reason with it, my body responded.

My chest tightened. Tears rose fast. Not from emotion—but from exposure. I knew what that hand meant. I knew what it would cost. It wasn’t a signal. It was a surrender. A line drawn between who I had been and who I could no longer pretend not to be.

I opened my eyes for a second, just to see if anyone was watching—because once I did this, there would be no hiding.

And then I raised my hand.

I didn’t plan it. I didn’t calculate it. It came from a place deeper than fear and older than doubt. Something in me answered before I could stop it.

When I stood and walked forward, my sister looked at me. My son and my niece watched me go. They didn’t know what was happening. And truthfully—neither did I.

But I knew I was being called.

On December 21, 2025, I went public with my faith.

I stood in front of a church filled with people who had known me my entire life—and people who didn’t know me at all, yet loved me without hesitation. As I stepped into the water, the light shone straight into my eyes, and I was forced to look at everything I had carried to get there.

My past.
My survival.
My becoming.

To my right stood my son and my niece, waiting for their turn—watching not just a baptism, but a breaking. My nephews stood before me. Beneath the light were my sister, my brother-in-law, my best friend—the people who had witnessed every version of me, even the ones I didn’t want seen.

I said only a few words—because some truths don’t need explanation.

And then I let go.

For the first time in my life, I felt the hand of God rest on my shoulder—not heavy, not demanding—but steady. Certain. Safe.

And I heard Him say:
Let it go. You are rescued.

In that water, I didn’t just declare faith.

I buried the woman who learned to survive instead of trust.
I released the shame I was never meant to carry.
I surrendered the version of myself that stayed broken because healing felt too risky.

Something died that day.

Not my story—but the chains around it.

I remember the day I died.

It was the day I broke free.

Thank you, Jesus.

-A Child of The Most High God-