The Girl And Her God: Surrender In The Struggle

I’ve been struggling with a substance use disorder.

It’s a combination of learned associations, rewired neural and emotional pathways, and physical dependency.

I want to write honestly about what I’m going through right now.

Because I think there’s value in bringing our weaknesses into the light.

Maybe someone else who is struggling will realize they’re not alone.

This is not just a testimony of what He has done.

It is a testimony of what He is doing.

It has been a very long, very difficult twenty years.

Despite countless attempts to break free from the shackles of addiction, I’ve only experienced moments of success. As much as I hate taking it, I keep coming back to it.

After so many failed attempts, I’ve finally reached the place where I know I cannot do this on my own.

But the truth is, I don’t know what it looks like to give something like this to God.

Not long ago, I shared about a struggle with jealousy. I wanted something deeply, and I realized I had to release my grip on it.

It was an act of surrender that led to a change.

Not because I convinced myself to stop being jealous, but because my perspective shifted.

The desire lost some of its grip because Jesus’ words became more real to me in that moment.

The movement looked something like this:

Closed hand → Open hand.

“I have to have this.”

became

“If You want me to have it someday, thank You. If not, You’re enough.”

Sometimes the jealousy comes back, and I have to open my hand again.

But the time between gripping and releasing is getting shorter.

I think with jealousy, surrender looks like laying down a desire.

Addiction feels different.

Every time I “quit,” is that laying it down? Or is it when I feel so desperate for freedom, I flush all I have, only to end up begging or borrowing until my next refill? Maybe it’s the times I almost make it an entire day without it…almost.

How do you surrender something that feels so far beyond your control?

I set it down, and somehow it always finds its way back into my hand. It’s like the remote from that movie Click.

With this addiction, it seems like the only thing I can lay down is my inability.

But what would Jesus do with that?

The other night I was feeling exceptionally defeated when I read something I had to try.

Instead of imagining myself laying something at Jesus’ feet…

I imagined collapsing at His feet.

Not with something in my hands.

With empty hands.

Saying,

“I have nothing left to offer here.

I can’t beat this.

I can’t trust myself in this battle.”

I need You.

I’m beginning to think that surrender isn’t releasing the drug.

It’s releasing the illusion that I can save myself from it.

That’s a different kind of surrender.

Tomorrow…

My brain may still be screaming.

My body may still depend on it.

I may even end up taking it.

But maybe surrender isn’t measured by whether the craving disappears.

Maybe it’s measured by where I take the craving.

Even as I have that thought, I still feel ashamed, and sometimes I hesitate to reach for God. I worry that if my faith was strong enough, I would be able to quit. I wonder if God is tired of meeting me here. Maybe He’s angry that I’ve failed for what feels like the thousandth time.

Then I read these words:

“A bruised reed He will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not quench.”

Over and over again, the Gospels show Jesus meeting broken people with astonishing compassion.

He welcomed people trapped in sin.

People with terrible reputations.

People who had failed repeatedly.

People who couldn’t fix themselves.

He never minimized their sin.

But He also never waited for them to become whole before receiving them.

As I sit with those truths, something begins to happen.

Not all at once.

Not perfectly.

But slowly, something is starting to fill the empty place—the hole I spent so many years trying to fill with the very substance that’s now threatening to turn it into a crater.

What if recovery begins when I stop arguing with reality and start working from it?

Yes, part of accepting reality is admitting that I cannot escape this by my own strength.

But another part of accepting reality is believing who Jesus is…

and believing who He says I am to Him.

Reading verses is one thing.

Experiencing what they describe is something entirely different.

I don’t think the invitation of the gospel is, “Come back once you’ve beaten this.”

I think it’s,

“Come to Me because you can’t beat it without Me.”

I have hope for the first time in a while.

Because I finally realize that surrender isn’t about bringing Him my little orange bottle.

It’s about bringing Him my defeat.

Not pretending I’m stronger than I am.

Not promising that this time will be the last time.

Just coming honestly.

Empty-handed.

Saying,

“Lord, if there is hope for me, it is You.”

I surrender…

Because no matter how desperately I want to quit, I cannot break these chains on my own.

I surrender…

Because He knows me completely, yet loves me still.

And truthfully…

that’s what I’ve been searching for the whole time.