We all inherit things we didn’t choose.
A way of reacting. A fear that doesn’t make sense. A story that seems to replay itself in every generation.
You can feel it sometimes — in the way your temper mirrors your father’s, or how your mother’s anxiety hums quietly in your own chest.
We call it personality.
But what if it’s code?
We call it “survival.” We call it “doing our best.”
But let’s be honest—sometimes “doing our best” just means “barely holding it together with duct tape and caffeine.”
We’ve got people out here calling burnout “purpose” and anxiety “just part of the grind.” That’s not freedom—that’s a hostage situation with good branding.
Suspicion grows best in the dark.
When we’re hurt, when trust is fractured, when trauma has left its fingerprint on our souls, the temptation is to retreat. To circle the wagons. To pull back from people because people were the problem.
Isolation doesn’t just keep us “safe.” It breeds suspicion.
Suspicion whispers, “You can’t trust them. They’re out to get you. Better watch your back.” And soon, suspicion metastasizes into paranoia. Paranoia convinces us we’re discerning when, in fact, we’re simply afraid.
But the Bible tells a different story.
Our country has just walked through a major national tragedy.
The murder of Charlie Kirk was not only heard about—it was seen. Millions watched the footage, a demonic spectacle replayed on screens that seared itself into our collective memory.
Moments like this mark a generation. They don’t just change what we see—they change how we think. If we’re not careful, these moments embed lies into the background code of our soul’s operating system. They hum quietly, but they redirect our choices, limit our identity, and even reroute our destiny.
The work isn’t just to grieve. The work is to debug.
Here are seven lies that surface after tragedy—and the truths that expose them:
This article challenges the cultural obsession with affirmation as the path to healing, arguing instead that true joy begins with truth—not comfort. It explores how grace-fueled transformation starts with conviction, confession, and repentance, not denial or flattery. Rooted in the gospel, it reminds us that while tears may come first, they are the seeds of a deeper joy only Christ can bring. Transformation isn’t achieved—it’s received. And joy, in the end, is not manufactured but harvested through surrender.
Let’s be honest—rejection is tough. That gut-punch of “No thanks, we’re good without you” can leave you questioning your worth, your efforts, and sometimes even your purpose. But what if rejection isn’t a full stop? What if it’s a divine opportunity? What if being canceled, overlooked, or unappreciated is actually positioning you for something greater?
