The House with the Porch Light On

Lately, I've had this image in my mind that I can't seem to let go of.

I first caught a glimpse of it while completing an assignment for my addictions course.

The assignment asked us to identify an addiction or problematic pattern in our own lives. At first, I looked at all the obvious things — shopping, my phone, substances, and other behaviours I could clearly see. But none of them really resonated. I knew I could easily snap out of these things if I needed to, and I didn't want to choose something simply for the sake of finishing the assignment.

So I prayed and asked God to reveal it to me.

I didn't receive some dramatic answer. A few days later, I sat down to paint my nails, and what should have taken twenty minutes ended up taking nearly four hours. Every time I noticed the smallest imperfection, I wiped everything off and started over. Eventually I sat back and thought, What am I doing?

It wasn't really about my nails.

It was about perfection.

That moment opened a door I hadn't expected to walk through.

As I began reflecting on where that need for perfection came from, memories started surfacing that I hadn't thought about in years. Growing up, there always seemed to be expectations about how things should look, how I should behave, and who I should become. Image mattered. There were opinions about everything, and somewhere along the way I slowly began believing that if I could just get everything right, maybe I would finally be enough.

Looking back now, I don't think I was simply trying to be perfect.

I was trying to belong.

I became very good at adjusting myself depending on who I was around. Sometimes I worked incredibly hard to meet the expectations I thought others had for me. Other times, I withdrew completely because it felt impossible to keep up. There wasn't much middle ground. I either tried really hard or I disappeared.

For years, I thought that was simply my personality.

Now I wonder if it was survival.

As I got older, the pressure didn't disappear. It simply changed shape. During my late teens and early twenties, I became increasingly concerned with how I looked, how I was perceived, and whether I measured up. Looking back now, I can see that many of the behaviours I struggled with weren't really the problem. They were attempts to cope with a pressure that had been building for years.

Then, when I was twenty-one, I was in a terrible car accident.

The accident itself wasn't the whole story, but it became the point where everything I had been pushing through finally began catching up with me. My body was already struggling, but I kept pretending I was okay. I ignored injuries. I ignored pain. I ignored the fact that I needed help because slowing down felt like failure.

I just kept going.

Eventually, my body gave out.

I became incredibly sick. I had to stop working. I couldn't keep up with simple tasks. Things that had been quietly building for years could no longer be ignored, and for the first time in my life I couldn't simply push through by trying harder.

At the time, it felt like everything was falling apart. Well, it did.

Now, I see it differently.

I don't think God caused my suffering, but I do believe He met me in it. What felt like the end of everything became the beginning of a different kind of healing. My body forced me to stop, but my soul finally had room to breathe. God began peeling away the layers I had spent years building — the pressure, the performance, the fear of disappointing people, and the belief that I had to earn my worth. He reassured me that I don't need to keep up the act, not with Him.

The healing is still unfolding.

I still notice those old patterns from time to time. Sometimes they show up in small ways, like repainting my nails or wanting my morning tea to be exactly right. Those habits remind me that healing isn't usually a single moment... it's a daily surrender.

It's choosing, over and over again, to trust God more than the expectations I've carried for so long.

And now, at twenty-four, I keep coming back to the same image.

At the end of a long, foggy road is a little house.

The porch light is on.

It's a home I've never known before, yet somehow I know it's been waiting for me a long time.

When I picture that house, I don't think about the past. I think about where God has been leading me.

For so many years I ran after approval, perfection, achievement, and the opinions of other people, believing that if I could just become enough, maybe I would finally find peace.

Instead, God has been patiently leading me somewhere entirely different.

Home.

Not a place where I've finally figured everything out.

Not a place where I become perfect.

A place where I no longer have to perform.

A place where I can finally rest in the love of the One who created me, knows me completely, and has been calling me by name all along.

The road still stretches out before me, and I'm sure there will be more twists and turns than I can imagine. But I don't need to know exactly what lies ahead.

I just need to keep following the light.

And I need to stop letting go of the hand that's leading me there