Beautiful Between

living fully in the now & not yet

My body wouldn’t break…so I couldn’t heal

girl sitting on curb

“I’m fine,” I say. I’m regaining consciousness. I feel the heat rising from the blacktop and the sun beating down. My head feels full of sloshing liquid.

A panic starts to rise in my chest, a shuddering heartbeat and a trembling in my limbs, but I shut it out. I imagine a door slamming shut in my heart, closing out the fear. Instead I am placid, unreasonably calm for someone who was just struck by a Tahoe on a beautiful June day.

“I’m fine,” I repeat it to the tearful woman who struck me, to the circling bystanders, to myself. I’m bleeding and feel unsteady. I’m sitting on a curb now. They’re asking about ambulances, but I say I’m going to walk home. I’m sure I can hold it together.


There are x-rays and questions in the emergency room. I’m only there because the woman who struck me insisted I go, insisted she take me herself. I spent the ride trying to reassure her that everything would be fine.

Nothing’s broken. I’m treated and released and told to take it easy. It sounds like no big deal, and I repeat it to myself: I’m fine. After all, aside from some scrapes, the injuries don’t look too bad. I don’t have to slow down or admit I’m in pain. I can keep the pace in my high-pressure job at a major corporation; I can keep putting in long hours at night as a volunteer youth pastor. I can keep saying yes. I can be flexible, roll with the punches.

Despite the lack of obvious brokenness in my body, I don’t seem to get better. My muscles lock into hard spasms. Sometimes I sit and can’t get back up, as though I’m paralyzed. Symptoms from a severe head injury worsen and the pain turns chronic.

I spend the next year in and out of all kinds of clinics: orthopedic surgeons, chiropractors, physical therapists, acupuncturists, massage therapists, neurologists. Progress is slow. Nobody understands why.

Finally, one tosses out an offhand comment that follows me for years: “You know, it would have been better if your bones had broken. Broken bones heal in a few weeks.” Eventually they’ve found a name for it: hypermobility syndrome, an abnormal looseness of joints, an over-flexibility.

You just stretched too far. You absorbed too much shock. It begins to settle in my heart, that my body doesn’t stop or break when it should. It takes on more than it was meant to bear, distorting and stretching to fit.


Had I broken upon impact, the healing would have been simpler and more complete. Bones can be set and mended in a few weeks, sometimes stronger than before. But stretched-out ligaments, tendons, and nerves take years to heal or regenerate. Sometimes, as in my case, they are never the same.  Short of a miracle, I’ll carry that chronic pain to the grave.

Flexing too far to hold myself together resulted in permanent damage. And sure, if I’d broken bones and skin that day, it would have looked worse. I could not have stood up and walked away. But in the end, I would have healed. It would have led to greater wholeness than keeping the hurt hidden beneath my skin ever could.


Eventually the pieces fall together. For years, I’ve done the same thing emotionally.  I’ve stretched so far, too far, to keep the hurt in. I refused to break, to look broken. But the constant searing inside was worse than allowing myself to ache openly, to ask for and receive help. It was a secret handicap, touching every area of my life. It is not a sign of strength or maturity or carefully developed flexibility, but a syndrome. A dysfunction.

I feel it in my relationship with the man I love. I think if I can encompass all his wants and desires and thoughts, I will be enough. If I can stretch far enough then everything will be OK. He will love me, and I will be good enough.

But that is not what he wants, and he reminds me often. He sends me a quote over text one day as I work: “Show me all your broken pieces, so I know the places to love first.” He’s always reminding me that he loves me. He doesn’t want me to stretch too far for his sake. He wants me as I am.


Ann Voskamp writes about living with an “unspoken broken” and allowing the pain to be a gift poured out. As I read slowly, I drink those words like water and remember precious moments I’ve been able to stop stretching and flexing to let my broken heart become the balm for another’s.

I remember bandaging fresh self-inflicted wounds on gorgeous young women. When they could only see shame and self-hate, I’d say, I’m not disappointed,” and show my own long-healed scars.

I remember telling my story in a room full of girls, inviting them into painful spaces, the way hope swelled in their hearts. I remember them handing me notes and hugging me, saying, “Maybe my life can change, too.”

The worst part of that compulsion to keep it all together? It keeps me from deeply connecting with the heartache of others. Funny how making space for the shattered parts allows me to give – and live – more fully. The pieces of hurt have helped me work with young women sex trafficked in the US and overseas, those with eating disorders and abuse and other stories of untold pain.

And I wonder, friend, what are the pieces you’re stretching hard to keep together? And what if letting those very pieces out let you become healing to others? My prayer is you’ll join me, that together we can learn to pour from our broken places to live and give more fully.

Did this strike a chord? If so, I made this free ebook on how to live a meaningful life just for you 🙂 Just click the link to get it, and I’ll also send encouragement and friendly notes, plus new posts. 

19 Replies

  1. So good bright eyes, so good.
    You’re a treasure and greatly loved

  2. Janet Robinson

    Wonderfully written! I love getting to know you better this way.

  3. Gabriel

    So glad I read this. And it was nice to read something new about you too Sarah 🙂

  4. I tell you this every time, I think, but I always mean it. This is my favorite one yet! So beautiful, raw, and real. I’m so proud to be your friend. You make the world a better place.

      1. Oh, did I say “friend”? LAWD!!! I meant brother!! 😀

  5. Jocelyn Simmons

    Beautiful insight. I’m so happy to see you living out the Lord’s promises with such a strong and understanding man. You two together will touch many lives. I, like your new friends, am learning more about you through your writings. Love you Sweetheart.

  6. Sarah, your words hold a profound lesson for us all. I tend to hide the broken parts of my life, and I love the sense of control that comes when I think I’m holding everything together. Letting ourselves be broken for the sake of others, and embracing our brokenness, seems to be a hidden pathway to the most abundant kind of life! Thanks for your vulnerability!

    1. Oh Stacey, I so resonate with what you said about loving that sense of control. It is intoxicating, but also keeps us bound. Thank you so much for the kind words ❤️

  7. Sarah

    My name is Sarah too and I look great on the outside and am broken physically on the inside. For years and years, I smiled and pushed through. Made my body do what I needed it to do. I hid the hurt since I couldn’t fix it. Daily migraines, food allergies, pain. I have finally gotten to the point where I am ready to be open and share the pain so that I can try to find healing. I’m learning how to stop and rest and seek the Lord and not to hide and be strong while I’m breaking inside. I loved this post and you made me cry and smile. Its really ok to share the brokenness of our own lives to help heal ourselves and others. God bless you!

    1. Sarah, I’m so sorry you know what this is like as well. Just know there IS balance to be found and it absolutely can and does get better! Thanks for sharing your heart.

  8. Grace

    Sarah, I was one of those girls! And I remember those moments, and they were some of the most impacting moments of my life- ones that I treasure and bring out like candles when life gets dark. I am so happy for this new season for you- have fun!

  9. Caroline

    I’m a survivor, Sarah ;
    It’s good to finally see a blog by someone who is willing to say, as a Christian, “everything is not alright”!
    I’m going to follow you and your story with interest and maybe one day tell you my story.
    There are so many broken ones who need what you have to say and the safe space you give them to be real. Thank you.

    1. Thank you so much, Caroline. Glad to have you here. <3 Sarah

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