Trigger warning: This deals with deep childhood trauma, survival mechanisms built to adapt to unsafe environments, and the lies that this type of upbringing bakes into the foundation of our lives. This is part one of three.
Psalm 27:10
For my father and my mother have forsaken me, but the Lord will take me in.(ESV)
I’ve always held onto things that other people would throw away. Scraps of paper. Old notes. Broken trinkets. Things that had no real function but were once handed to me by someone who mattered—or who I wanted to matter to me. I wasn’t hoarding. I was trying to keep people in my life by preserving the evidence that they were ever there at all.
I couldn’t make them stay. So I kept what they left behind. I couldn’t hold onto their presence, so I held onto the proof. That may sound small, but when you’ve lived a life where people forget what hurts, forget what they said, forget that you matter—it feels sacred to remember what others throw away.
Luke 16:10
One who is faithful in a very little is also faithful in much, and one who is dishonest in a very little is also dishonest in much.(ESV)
I kept every fragment like it was holy. Because I believed if I cared enough, it would make up for everyone who didn’t. And if they forgot, I wouldn’t. If they failed to love well, I would overcompensate for both of us.
The Day I Was Erased
Years later, I was in a wreck that changed everything. Literally.
My memory was wiped.
Completely. I became a shell of who I had been. I could feel a deep emptiness behind my own eyes and had no words for what was missing. But no one knew. I still showed up. Still smiled. Still worked. Still performed the same song and dance routine I had built my life around. Even I didn’t fully realize what had happened at first. Because I had been performing for so long, I didn’t know how to tell the difference between being alive and pretending to be me. My wife noticed something. She was one of only two people who felt it—that something wasn’t right. But even she didn’t know what to call it. And honestly, neither did I. It was like I had pulled back from myself—watching my life happen from a distance, holding my breath, waiting to see if I would notice that I was gone. An inception moment. A glitch in my soul. The man in the mirror had memorized the movements, but the meaning was missing. And the irony? I had spent my whole life trying not to be forgotten—only to literally forget myself.
When You Lose Yourself in Other People’s Joy
The wreck forced me to look at my life more honestly than I ever had. And one realization hit like a knife: I don’t have any personal interests.
Everything I’ve ever cared about—every fandom, every obsession, every hobby or skill—was something I picked up to connect with someone else. I wasn’t chasing passions. I was chasing people. “If I learn what they love… maybe I’ll be loved.” “If I study their interests, maybe I’ll be interesting.” “If I make their joy my own, maybe I’ll get to stand in the glow of it with them.” But over time, I started to see the lie behind the joy.
I didn’t love those things. I loved being allowed near someone who did.
Isaiah 42:3
a bruised reed he will not break, and a faintly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice.(ESV)
The wick in me burned for years—quiet, desperate, nearly invisible. And most people didn’t notice. I had been part of their conversations, but not part of their circle. Included in the group chat, but never missed when I stopped replying. The “belonging” I worked so hard to earn was nothing more than tolerated proximity. If you leave and no one notices—you were never really in the room to begin with.
Why It Hurt So Much
Because I didn’t just want friendship. I wanted restoration. I chased people not because I was needy, but because I refused to let anyone else feel the abandonment I had known. I was the one who cared when others didn’t. I remembered when others forgot. I stood in the breach.
Ezekiel 22:30
And I sought for a man among them who should build up the wall and stand in the breach before me for the land, that I should not destroy it, but I found none.(ESV)
And they still didn’t notice. That doesn’t just bruise the heart—it warps your identity. You start to believe that your value exists only in what you can offer, not in who you are.
Presence Without Performance
That’s the lie I’m confronting now:
That I must perform to be wanted.
But I’m starting to see the truth.
God doesn’t ask me to be impressive.
He doesn’t need me to be interesting.
He doesn’t even need me to be useful in the way people define it.
He just says:
Matthew 11:28
Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.(ESV)
Not applause. Not validation.
Rest.
I’m learning that I can just be.
That my presence is enough—even if no one claps, even if no one notices, even if I’m the only one in the room who knows I’m there.
And slowly, I’m asking God to help me rediscover the me that never had a chance to grow—the one buried beneath years of mimicry, people-pleasing, and pursuit.
Because I know now:
Psalm 139:13-14
(13)For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. (14)I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.(ESV)
Not formed in fandom.
Not stitched together by scraps.
Made. Intentionally. By Him.
If You’re Still Performing
If you’re reading this and you’re exhausted from performing—If you’ve been chasing belonging through service, obsession, or sacrifice—If you feel like you’re disappearing, even though you’re still in the room—
You’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re not fake. You’re a soul that was wired to love deeply—who just never got shown how to be loved without needing to earn it.
And that’s changing now.
You’re allowed to stop performing.
You’re allowed to be still.
You’re allowed to be present.
And it will be enough.
Walking With Christ 
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