It didn’t start like something I needed to escape.
It started simple.
Easy.
Something I could return to
without thinking twice.

Something small,
a distraction 
from the weight of things I didn’t want to feel.
It didn’t look dangerous.

Not at first.
But no one tells you
how something harmless
can learn your name,
your patterns,
until it starts calling you back daily.

That’s how it works.
It starts soft.
Then it stays.
Then it scars.

It could be anything,
the thing you reach for
when silence feels too loud,
when your chest feels too full,
when you don’t want to sit with yourself.

What once felt like relief
now feels like a cycle.
Because somewhere along the way,
pleasure stopped being free.
It started asking for more.

And now,
there’s this constant back and forth.
"I won’t do it again."
"I mean it this time."

Then silence.
Then weakness.
Then return.
The flesh is weak.
I know that now.
But my spirit,
my spirit keeps reaching.

Even in the middle of it,
there are moments I want to stop.
Moments I try to pull away.
Sometimes I do.
Sometimes I don’t.
And the worst part isn’t even the act,
it’s what comes after.

The guilt.
The heaviness.
The quiet shame that lingers
longer than the moment ever did.
It feels like a cage.
Like I’m watching myself
repeat what I already said
I was done with.

And still, I go back.
So I ask myself, why?
Is it comfort?
Is it emptiness?
Is it something I’m trying not to name?
Or maybe…

there isn’t even a clear reason anymore.
Just habit.
Just escape.
Just something my body learned
before my spirit could catch up.

And yet,
there’s something deeper in me
that refuses to settle there.
Something that still turns to God
even after I fall.

"Lord… I’m here again."
Not with excuses.
Not with strength.
Just… here.

Because the truth is,
I didn’t earn mercy.
I don’t deserve grace.

And still,
it’s given.

~Romans 3:23-24; for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, [24] and are justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus,

So maybe this isn’t about
getting it right in one day.
Maybe it’s about learning to leave.
Slowly.

Choosing, even mid-step,
to turn away.
To run,
even if it’s messy,
even if it’s incomplete,
even if it’s late.

~‭1 Peter 2:11; Dear friends, I urge you, as foreigners and exiles, to abstain from sinful desires, which wage war against your soul.

Because every time I pull away,
something in me shifts.
Not instantly.
Not perfectly.
But gradually.

Like my flesh
is learning to follow
where my spirit has already gone.
So I keep running.

Day by day.
Night by night.
Not because I’m strong,
but because I’m willing.
And maybe that’s where it begins.

Not in perfection.
Not in sudden change.
But in the quiet decision
to stop feeding
what’s trying to consume me.

To stop building space
for it to grow.
And instead, to draw closer
to the One who never left.

Because the more I stay with Him,
the less power it holds.
Not overnight.
But loosening. Fading.
Losing its voice.

So when I fall,
I won’t stay there.
I won’t let guilt speak louder,
than grace.

I’ll rise.
I’ll return.
I’ll keep going.
Because this,
this is a journey.

And I’m still moving.
Still choosing.
Still learning to run.

‭