She Is Me
By Sherita Jones | The Anointing Grace
She walks quietly through rooms where no one knows what she carries.
Her smile is soft, but her eyes have seen wars no one ever named.
If you met her, you might think she is strong.
If you knew her story, you would know she had to be.
She learned early what it meant to survive.
Not because she wanted to, but because survival chose her.
She learned how to be small when the world was loud,
how to be silent when her voice wasn’t safe,
how to stand when no one came to hold her.
She has known abandonment.
Not the kind that comes with goodbyes,
but the kind that leaves you wondering if you were ever chosen at all.
She has known loss that carved holes words couldn’t fill.
She has known betrayal that rearranged her understanding of trust.
There were seasons when her body kept moving
but her soul lagged behind, bruised and weary.
Nights when tears became her language
and mornings when strength felt borrowed, not owned.
She has prayed prayers that felt unanswered
and waited in silence so loud it echoed.
She has asked God why more times than she can count
and learned that sometimes the answer isn’t explanation,
it’s presence.
Because somehow…
in the middle of what should have broken her,
she remained.
She bent, but she did not shatter.
She ached, but she did not disappear.
She questioned, but she did not walk away.
Even when fear tried to make a home in her chest,
hope kept knocking.
Even when trauma tried to define her,
faith kept interrupting the narrative.
She might cry, but she does not collapse.
She might grieve, but she does not give up.
And when she finally paused long enough
to examine the weight and magnitude of all she has endured,
from the time she was a little girl
to the woman she is still becoming,
she realized something holy.
God was there.
Not just at the end.
Not just in the healing.
But in the holding.
He was there when no one else stayed.
There when her strength ran out.
There when her heart didn’t know how to hope again.
He kept her.
He carried her.
He helped her stand when standing felt impossible.
And suddenly, the pain, though still real,
lost its authority.
The fear, though familiar, lost its voice.
The trauma, though present, lost its power.
Because she discovered this truth:
God is more real than her suffering.
More constant than her wounds.
More faithful than her memories.
Her hope exists because of Him.
Her strength rests on Him.
Her faith survives because He never left.
And if you’re wondering who she is,
the one who endured,
the one who survived,
the one still standing,
She is me.
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