It’s easy to believe when trouble never comes your way. But I’ve been through a lot, heartbreaking, difficult, and painful situations. From the very day I was born, I’ve faced challenges that would leave anyone anxious, overwhelmed, and searching for answers.

There was a period in my life when I shared what I was going through with a friend. I opened up regularly, thinking I had found a safe space. Then one day, he asked me if I prayed, if I had quiet time with God, if I read my Bible. And eventually, he concluded, though not in so many words, that maybe the reason I was going through all these things was because I wasn’t doing those things enough. He said I was focusing too much on the negative and needed to be more thankful, more cheerful, more joyful. You know, the usual checklist: read your Bible, pray every day, go to church, worship, find joy, stay positive.

I remember thinking to myself, Is he implying that my suffering is because I haven’t done enough? That God allows these things because I’ve somehow failed to tick all the spiritual boxes?

If you were to spend just 72 hours with me, you’d see that my life is rooted in faith. I may not be the type to post Bible verses or journal every devotion in a neatly organized way. But my entire lifestyle, how I live, how I walk, how I work, is in constant communion with God. I talk to Him all the time. I invite Him into everything. Not just into my morning routine, but into my moments of doubt, into my work meetings, into my silence, into my mess.

For me, worship isn’t just a scheduled activity. It’s an ongoing relationship. It’s not always about sitting down with a Bible and highlighting verses, though that’s important too. For me, it’s about saying, God, I need you here, right now. It’s about the unspoken prayers, the tears, the laughter, the whispering of His name in the middle of an ordinary day. It's the constant awareness that He's present, even when I don’t feel it.

And yet, despite all this, despite the prayers, the worship, the relationship, bad things have still happened to me.

But does that mean God isn't with me? Does it mean He doesn't love me? That He doesn’t care?

No.

It simply means life is complex, and suffering is not always a sign of spiritual failure. We cannot always trace a straight line between hardship and holiness. And it's painful when someone looks at your wounds and suggests that they're self-inflicted because your faith wasn’t enough.

That’s not who God is. That’s not grace.

People undergo C-sections to bring life into the world. Yet there I was, young, with no child, undergoing a similar procedure, not to deliver a baby, but to remove ten fibroids from my womb.

At first, I thought they had removed eight. I remember counting after the procedure, eight. Then I counted again and thought maybe it was nine. But when the official pathology report came from the standard authority in Ghana, it confirmed ten. Ten fibroids.

Not that eight or nine were easy to accept. Not that seeing the ultrasound report read "multiple fibroids present" was ever easy to swallow. But seeing “10” in black and white on that medical report sobered me in a way I can’t quite describe. It made it all painfully real.

Now imagine being told that, depending on what they find during surgery, your uterus might have to be removed, and you don’t have a child yet. I nearly collapsed the day I heard that. I sat in that consultation room, numb, the weight of those words crushing.

If not for my sister, herself a medical doctor, encouraging me, I don't know how I would’ve held it together. I found another doctor, one who was not only willing to operate but also committed to preserving my fertility. That brought relief, yes, but it didn’t erase the anxiety.

Because behind every decision, behind every scan, behind every conversation, was the looming fear: What if I never get the chance? What if this is it?

Did I mention the largest fibroid was the size of a 22-week old pregnancy measuring about 13 to 17cm?

At the beginning of this year, like everyone else, I prayed. You know how it is when the year starts and we all say, “God, please. No battles this year. No strongest soldier title. Just soft life. Smiles. Joy. Ease.” That was my prayer too.

But before January even fully arrived, I already knew: this was the year I had to deal with the fibroids. It was time.

So the year began with scans, CT scans, ultrasounds. Lab work. Blood tests. Medications to prepare my body. Hospital visits. And the search for the right doctor, the right hospital, one close enough to home so I could manage the aftercare properly. The weight of it all made the start of 2025 feel so heavy. Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, spiritually. The reality hit me hard: This is what it is. This is my journey.

I was admitted on February 10th, and by the 11th, I was in the hospital. I remember thinking, Wow… Valentine's Day is this Friday. And I’ll probably be in pain.

Let me be vulnerable here: life has been hard. Life has layers I still can’t fully understand. On February 14th, Vals Day, I lay in a hospital bed, barely able to move, scrolling through social media, watching others celebrate love, laughter, and joy. Meanwhile, I couldn't even clean myself. My mother had to help me. I was still in pain. Still recovering. Still processing. Four days in the hospital and I felt like I had already reached my limit.

The day of the surgery was terrifying. If someone had told me at age 15 or 17 that I would go through something like this one day, I’d have said, “No, never. That can’t be me.” But it was. It is.

I’ll never forget being wheeled into the theatre in my gown, the room fully prepped. That moment, it became so real. I remember praying, “God, if I go… will I come back?” That was the depth of my fear.

It’s so easy to believe in God when sorrow doesn’t touch you. When trouble never comes your way, faith feels light. Simple. But when it does come, when the storm is yours, it tests every part of you.

I was terrified. I’ve always feared needles, so even the thought of being injected in my spine shook me. But I did it. I took the spinal anesthesia, and as expected, my legs went numb. I panicked. It was happening. I asked to be sedated, I didn’t want to be conscious, even if there was no pain. I just couldn’t handle being aware of what was happening around me.

About two hours later, it was over. I was in recovery.

And in that recovery room, I began to understand a deeper kind of strength, one that doesn’t come from having it all together, but from surviving what tried to break you.

Recovery… recovery was something else.

I told myself that the very day the surgery was done, I would try to get up and walk. My body was aching, every part of me felt heavy, but I got down from that bed and took a few steps. That was the beginning of my recovery.

I was moved back to the ward, and soon after, my mom and family came to see me. Their presence brought warmth, but the days that followed were tough. I spent three more days in the hospital waiting to be discharged, and when I was finally sent home, the real healing began.

And let me tell you, healing was painful! You never fully understand how complex your body is until you go through something like this. Even something as simple as getting out of bed became a major task. In the hospital, beds are adjustable, you can raise or lower them to help you sit up. But at home? Your regular bed doesn't do that. So I needed help. Help to sit up. Help to clean myself. Help to move.

It humbled me.

But through it all, I kept saying, Thank you, Jesus.

I remembered a prayer I once prayed, long before I ever faced anything like this. I told God, It’s not about what You can give me. It’s not about the things I can ask for or receive. Just being close to You, walking with You, that gives my life meaning and purpose. That’s what matters most to me, being in Your presence.

So even now, even in pain, even in the valley, I will worship.

Because I can truly say, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For You are with me.”

Will you still worship, even when it doesn’t make sense?

What if your life, after all your efforts to walk in obedience, still feels like a storm that won’t pass? What if, after doing everything in your human capacity to be in right standing with God, the troubles still come?

Will you stand?

You’ve heard the promises: “The Lord is with you." But what do you do when you can no longer move like you used to? When your strength is gone and everything familiar feels distant?

You’ve clung to the words: “He will never leave you nor forsake you.” Yet your life looks like it’s hit rock bottom. You keep having to start over. And every time you rebuild, you ask God, “How many restarts, Lord? How many more?”

These are the questions that test the depth of your faith. These are the moments that define your worship, not in comfort, but in confusion. Not in clarity, but in chaos.

And still, the heart must whisper, Even now… I will worship. Because sometimes worship isn’t about understanding, it’s about surrender.

Today, I’m being real with you.

Raw and real.

Sometimes, you don’t even know if it’s okay to cry.

You don’t know if it’s okay to question what you’re going through.

You don’t know if it’s okay to ask God why.

Because the doctrine we’ve received, often unintentionally, tells us that asking why means doubt. That asking when means you don’t have faith. But let me tell you something,

Faith is standing in the presence of God and still asking “why”, because you don’t understand. Faith is asking “when”, because you’re holding on even though you can’t see the end. Faith is not the absence of questions. It’s the decision to stay.

If you had no faith, you’d have walked away by now. You wouldn’t still be here, asking, “Why, God?” “When, Lord?” “How long?”

Every time you’ve stayed in His presence with those questions, You chose faith.

The essence of all of this is presence. Staying in God’s presence. That’s where life is. That’s where hope is. That’s where peace will come from, even if it hasn’t yet. Even if the answers haven’t come.

I’m writing this not from a place of resolution, but from the middle of the unknown. I don’t have my answers yet. I’m still wrestling with my when, why, how, and what.

But still, I write. Still, I testify of the presence and love of God. Because I know He’s real. I know He’s listening. And I know He will bring peace.

This is why some forms of worship don’t always resonate with me. Because sometimes, the way we’ve been taught, it’s like you’re not allowed to suffer.

Or if you do, you’re expected to smile through it, shout hallelujah with a broken heart and no tears. But that’s not faith. That’s a performance.

God’s presence is the safest place for your vulnerability. It’s not where you go to pretend. You’re not weak for crying. You’re not less spiritual for saying, “God, I’m tired.” The Holy Spirit understands. He sees the thoughts in your mind. He knows what’s weighing your heart down.

So don’t hide when you come to Him. Don’t act strong if you’re not. Be bare. Be honest. Be broken, if that’s where you are.

Even Jesus, in the Garden of Gethsemane, cried out with such intense agony that He sweat blood. Sweat. Blood. What kind of emotional anguish leads to that?

Let that tell you something, God can handle your pain. He’s your Father. So when you go to Him, bring everything. Don’t filter. Don’t perform.

Faith is not easy. Being a Christian is not easy. But vulnerability with God, that’s where strength begins.

And I promise you, He hears. He sees. He knows. He will comfort you. He will answer.

Amen.