*Trigger Warning: This post is about sexual abuse and trauma* It is REAL and RAW.*

Motherhood has a way of bringing out all our insecurities. We question everything—our choices, our patience, our ability to keep tiny humans alive without losing our minds. And underneath it all, there’s shame lurking in the shadows.

For some of us, it’s the everyday kind—the messy house, the fast-food dinners, the moments we snap at our kids and feel like the worst mom in the world.

But for others, shame runs deeper.

It’s old, familiar.

It’s the shame of a past that we didn’t choose, wounds that weren’t our fault, memories we wish we could erase, nightmares that never stop.

I know that kind of shame.

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse at the hands of my father. For years I was forced to keep secrets no child should ever be asked to keep. I was caught in a world that was dark, shameful, and humiliating. And even though I know—know—it wasn’t my fault, shame still clings like a second skin. It’s there in the quiet moments, whispering lies: You are damaged. You are different. You will never be free. You will never be enough. You are dirty, disgusting and shameful.

Dating my now husband was both beautiful and terrifying. I had mastered the art of hiding—smiling when I needed to, laughing at the right moments, acting like I was just another girl with a normal past. But trauma is a life-long scar, one that doesn’t just disappear because love finds you. I carried the weight of innocence stolen, of a childhood ripped away before it ever had the chance to fully exist. I wanted to be light and carefree, but shame clung to me like a shadow, whispering that I was too broken to be truly loved. I vowed to never marry or become a mother. I refused to carry that to others. So I tucked the pain away, convinced that if he really knew, if he saw the depth of what had been done to me, he’d look at me differently. But love—real, God-given love—has a way of stepping into the darkest places and saying, You are still worthy. And that, little by little, is what began to set me free. He saw me, not my baggage. He helped me unpack it without judgement, and with so much love. He held me during my night terrors. He listened and encouraged me to be honest with myself.

Therapy became the place where I finally let the broken pieces be seen. I so badly wanted my relationship, my marriage to be built on trust and love. For so long, I had believed that if I could just ignore the pain, push it down deep enough, maybe it would eventually disappear. If I could out perform everyone else as a teacher, as a wife, as a sister, a friend, I would finally be worthy. But trauma doesn’t work that way. It lingers, festers, shapes the way you see yourself, the way you trust, the way you love.

It wasn’t until I sat across from a Christian counselor—someone who saw both my wounds and my worth—that I began to understand healing wasn’t about pretending it never happened. It was about bringing it into the light. It was about surrendering the shame I was never meant to carry. It was about letting God take the pieces of my past and rebuild something new.

And then motherhood comes along, and suddenly, the wounds feel fresh again, even after years of therapy.

Because now, it’s not just about me. It’s about her. My daughter.

My precious, innocent, baby girl.

And with that comes a fire in my soul—a burning desperation to do better than what I had. To protect her from every hurt, every shadow, every piece of brokenness that ever touched me. To never let her feel unsafe, unheard, or unseen.

And so I try. I try so hard. I spin myself into circles.

I try to be the perfect mom, the one who never yells, who always listens, who makes every right decision. Because deep down, there’s this fear—if I mess up, if I’m not careful, if I’m not enough… it could all unravel.

What if I fail her?

What if I pass down the brokenness?

What if I can't keep her safe?

What if she grows up and hates me?

And then there are the comments (or silence, ignoring) from family—those who don’t understand, who think I should "just move on," who roll their eyes when I talk about boundaries, who say things like:

"You turned out fine, didn’t you?"

"You’re too sensitive."

"You’re making a big deal out of nothing."

"Just let it go, it was so long ago."

As if the weight of my trauma is an inconvenience to them. As if my pain should be small enough to ignore, to make them comfortable.

Seeing my dad last year was like stepping back into a storm I thought I had finally escaped. I had spent years working through the trauma, untangling myself from the shame, learning to live beyond what he had done to me. Learning to live.

But in a single moment—one look at his face—it all came rushing back.

The fear. The anger, oh the anger.

The weight of a little girl who had carried too much for too long.

I had told myself I was stronger now, that I had healed enough, that I was past it. I was a mom now, a wife. But there he was, and suddenly, I was that broken little girl, back in survival mode. My body tensed, my heart pounded, my mind raced with everything I wanted to say but couldn’t. It wasn't the time or the place.

I wanted him to hurt the way I had hurt. I wanted him to understand the damage he had done. I wanted justice. But most of all, I wanted to be free from the grip he still seemed to have on me.

And that’s when I realized—he doesn’t get to have that power anymore.

Yes, the pain was real. Yes, the memories still haunt me. But my healing?

That belonged to God, not him.

Psalm 34:18 says, The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

Then came the hardest part—the part I had been avoiding for years. Being honest with God. Not the polished, church-version of honesty where I said the right things and kept my emotions in check, but the raw, unfiltered truth:

I was angry.

Angry that it happened to me.

Angry that I was just a child, innocent and trusting, and it was stolen from me.

Angry that is was my own father. The person that I look just like. Who I see in the mirror.

Angry that I had to carry this burden, that I had to do the work to heal from something I never asked for.

Angry that the people who should have protected me didn’t.

Angry that, for so long, it felt like God had been silent.

I didn’t want to admit it. I grew up believing that anger toward God was wrong, that I had to just accept what happened and move on. But the truth is, God already knew my heart. He wasn’t afraid of my anger. He wasn’t disappointed in my questions. He wasn’t asking me to pretend I was okay.

So, just like Job, I told Him.

On my knees, bold, loud, angry cries to Him. I laid it all out—the hurt, the betrayal, the deep ache of injustice, the anger, the fear of keeping my daughter safe.

And instead of condemnation, I found something unexpected: grace.

God didn’t push me away. He met me there.

In my anger, He whispered, I know. I saw. I never left you.

In my brokenness, He reminded me, This was never yours to carry alone.

In my fear, He promised, I am still making beauty from these ashes.

That honesty—that surrender—was the turning point. Because healing didn’t mean pretending I was never hurt. It meant finally giving the pain to the only One strong enough to hold it. It is why this blog, this website was born. This is my surrender, my stepping forward, my light in the darkness.

So, here’s the thing that God is showing me—shame is not mine to carry.

And it’s not yours either. God never meant for us to live like that.

Shame is the enemy’s way of keeping us stuck. He knows that our story is too powerful if we ever get bold enough to share it. He knows that if God has his way, the light that would shine from it.

Because despite what I feel, despite the fears, despite the desperate perfectionism that haunts me, God reminds me:

I was never meant to be Luci's savior.

He already is.

I was never meant to carry the weight of perfection.

His grace is sufficient.

I was never meant to parent out of fear.

He has already redeemed my story.

Romans 8:1 – There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

Isaiah 61:7 – Instead of your shame you will receive a double portion, and instead of disgrace you will rejoice in your inheritance.

2 Corinthians 12:9 – My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.

So, what if we did the things anyway? The things we are scared to do?

What if we showed up, even when shame told us to hide?

What if we loved our children fiercely, even if we weren’t shown love in the way we deserved?

What if we pursued the dreams in our hearts, even if we feel unworthy of them?

What if we stepped out in faith, even if fear tries to keep us small?

Because here’s the truth: shame does not get to define us.

 Our past does not define us. Abuse does not define us.

Christ does.

And He says we are redeemed. He says we are chosen. He says we are free.

So today, let’s walk in that freedom. Let’s be the mothers our children need—not perfect, but present. Let’s pursue the callings God has put on our lives, not because we feel worthy, but because He is.

And when shame tries to creep back in? When the weight of perfection and fear threaten to swallow us whole? We remind ourselves exactly where it belongs—at the feet of Jesus, where He has already taken it all.

Dear Jesus,

You see every wound, every scar, and every tear. You know the weight of shame that so many of us carry, but You never meant for us to bear it alone. Today, I lift up every mother who feels trapped by her past, who fears she is not enough, who longs to break the chains of trauma.

Remind her that she is not alone. That her past does not define her—You do. That she is worthy, loved, and redeemed in Your eyes.

Give her the strength to surrender her pain, the courage to walk in healing, and the faith to trust that You are making all things new. When shame whispers lies, let Your truth be louder. When fear grips her heart, remind her that You go before her.

Thank You for being a Father who restores, who holds us when we feel broken, and who leads us into freedom. May she walk in grace, healing, and the unshakable truth that she is Yours.

In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

As always, I am here to listen, to chat, and to pray; hello@raisinglittleluci.com