It was a sunny summer afternoon. My grade school friends and I were at my grandma’s house, and they had brought a pair of in-line skates with them. I’d mentioned that I’ve always wanted to try skating, and today they were going to teach me.

I excitedly strapped on the skates, helmet, and pads, ready to fly down the garden path in my grandma’s backyard. Wobbling like a newborn giraffe, I turned toward the slight decline, ready for what I was sure would be a thrilling ride. Just as I prepared to push off, Grandma called out from the porch.

“You’re not ready for that, Addison. Practice on flat ground first.”

I sighed as she laid a large sheet of plywood on the grass. After a few minutes shuffling half-heartedly across the wood, I was done.

“Enough of this baby stuff,” I thought. 

I checked if the coast was clear and made my way to the brick path. “Let’s see how this works.” I pushed off with one foot, and for a few seconds, it was perfect. A breeze hit my face, and my balance held steady. 

But then, everything stopped.

It wasn’t the crash that hit first—it was the snap, followed by a tearing sensation.

I looked down and saw my heel where my toes should have been. My knee twisted backward, my left skate caught in a crack between the bricks. A second later, the pain hit, so intense I thought I might pass out. 

I collapsed, screaming.

The next ten minutes were a blur of agony and being rushed to the hospital. The X-ray confirmed my fear—my fibula and tibia were twisted like a barber’s pole.

Months later, my leg healed, but the middle-school growth spurts were agonizing. The pain in my left leg was three times worse than in my right.

And as you can probably guess, I never learned to skate.

Pain isn’t just an injury—it’s a force that stops us cold. It places us in survival mode, reacting to every threat and possibility of harm. Like all living things, when pain strikes desperately try avoiding harm at all costs, whether physical, mental or emotional.

You can see this demonstrated in how our negative emotions operate. Most of them are simply different shades of managing our proximity to pain:

These emotions point to a pain that isn’t momentary, but one that lingers. Pain has a way of embedding itself in our memory, influencing decisions long after the initial injury has faded. It presses down on us.

We don’t just avoid situations that cause pain—we build walls around them, convinced it’s safer to stay far away. Eventually, we stop living for something and live to avoid something.

Pain is manipulative, embedding itself in our minds and controlling our actions. My rollerblading accident is a perfect example. I’ve tried learning to skate a few times since, and fear of injury always stopped me before I could succeed.

But it’s not just about learning new skills. Pain affects how we interact with the world, stopping us from showing compassion, being generous, taking risks, and stepping into opportunities. Pain traps us in cycles of inaction, just like how anger can trap us in cycles of frustration.

Pain and fear work together, keeping us from growth, and holding us back from the things that matter most.

Breaking free from pain begins with recognizing that emotions are just chemical responses. Our feelings are personal interpretations of those emotions, but neither are objective truths. Only when we stop chasing feelings can we begin to address the source of the pain.

Once we recognize this crucial factor, we can begin to trust others and become vulnerable.

We need a sense of safety to open up about our pain to someone who can help. This is where negative emotions like embarrassment, fear, and anxiety do their best to stop us from ever becoming vulnerable enough for healing.

Once we form trust in someone, healing can begin. Others can help us process the source of the pain and see objectively how it’s been manipulating our lives so we can move forward. We can finally gain closure and stop letting negative emotions control us.

For me, understanding my emotions and finding trust came through my relationship with God. 

When I came into a relationship with Him, I realized that even though I had been His enemy, He had loved me first and chosen me as His son. That revelation gave me the trust I needed to be at peace, open up, and let Him heal me.

He helped me confront the areas of my life where pain had taken root, giving me the strength to move forward confidently as His child.

Romans 8:28 says, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

God never intended for me to live with pain, as it has always been a consequence of sin in this world. I’ve had some of it inflicted on me by others, some more by happenstance, and still much more of it has been self-inflicted, but none of it was ever meant to define me.

Even in my worst moments, God was faithful, turning situations that Satan had orchestrated for my downfall into opportunities for growth, healing, and love.

On the other side of pain, we can reflect and see the lessons we’ve learned. This deepens our understanding of how to speak into others’ pain, helping us offer true compassion. If we become the trustworthy, kind, and compassionate type of people that we ourselves leaned on during our own pain, we will be representing God’s heart toward others and acting in true love.

This requires patience, as pain often blinds people to the helping hands around them. Just as we can be blind to those trying to help during our pain, we must be persistent in our compassion for others, waiting for the moment they are ready to accept our help.

When they’re ready to reach out, we’ll be there, just as others were for us.

Until next time,
Addison