I was three, maybe four years old, when I learned to stop crying.

I remember standing there — small, tearful, wanting my mother’s attention. All I wanted was time with her, to be held, to be seen. Instead, she shoved my head under cold water. The shock stole my breath. I gasped, covered my mouth, and made a vow that day: I will never cry again.

That inner vow wrapped itself around my heart like armour. I told myself I wouldn’t need hugs, comfort, or softness. I would not ask for love. I would be strong — or at least appear to be. I grew up being F.I.N.E. — Fractured, Insecure, Numb, and Exhausted.

For decades, that word became my survival code. “I’m fine” meant I’m holding it together by a thread. It was the language of control, the mask of someone who learned early that her needs were too much. Beneath that silence lived a river of uncried tears — tears that my body would one day reveal through pain, pressure and inflammation.

Years later, my mother told me she once found me in the living room — quiet and still. I had fallen while climbing on the TV unit and split my lip open. Blood was streaming through my fingers, yet not a single tear fell. I just stood there, hand pressed over my mouth, frozen not a sound.

That image pierced me when I remembered it. The little girl who had learned that tears were dangerous now stood silently bleeding, unwilling to cry even in pain. My body remembered the vow even when my mind had forgotten.

That moment became the mirror to my soul. I began to see how deeply that vow shaped my life — how it stole my ability to receive comfort, how it numbed joy as well as pain. The silence that once kept me safe had become a prison.

Yet even in that frozen moment, Jesus was there. I believe He knelt beside that trembling child, whispering, “You don’t have to hide your pain anymore. I can hold it. I can hold you.”

When I finally repented and renounced that vow, my body began to heal. My sinuses cleared. My chest loosened. My tears — once imprisoned — became prayers. Each one felt like a baptism, washing away years of self-protection. I was no longer drowning in grief; I was being freed by grace.

The vow that once kept me “fine” broke under the weight of divine love.

The little girl who had stood silent and bleeding learned to weep again.

💡 Reflection:

• What vows of self-protection have shaped your story — and what might God be inviting you to release? 🤔

• What memories still hold your tears hostage, waiting to be redeemed by His touch? 🤔

• What would it look like to let your tears become an offering instead of a sign of weakness? 🤔

🎺 Affirmation:

I am no longer defined by silence or strength without softness. My tears are holy; my heart is safe. The vow is broken. Love has found me, and I am free to cry, to need, and to be healed.

🙌 Prayer:

Abba Father,

Thank You for finding me in every hidden place — even in the memories I thought were too painful to revisit. Thank You for loving the little girl who believed she had to be fine while her heart bled in silence. I release the vow that bound me to strength without comfort. I welcome Your healing presence into the places where cold water silenced my cries. Wash away every residue of fear and shame. Let my tears water new life, and may every drop become a testimony of Your compassion.

In Jesus’ Name, Amen.