We Carry What No One Sees: How God Meets Us in the Places We Can’t Explain

At the end of most church services, members and visitors often linger to fellowship and express their gratitude for one another’s presence. There are handshakes, hugs, and warm greetings that tug at the heart.

Several years ago, I was moving through the crowd at the close of a service—sharing love, exchanging hugs, and pausing for conversation. A visitor and I approached a congregant at the same time. I stepped aside to let the visitor go first, but she smiled kindly and extended her hand, silently encouraging me to speak.

Before I could respond, the woman we were both trying to greet waved her hand dismissively and said, “That’s Iris—an old shoe.”

In that moment, the warmth in my chest cooled. I smiled politely, but something inside me stung.

It wasn’t just the words—it was who said them. But the deeper sting came from a part of me that had long struggled with feelings of worthlessness.

Later that evening, I found myself taking inventory of every pair of old shoes I owned. Sure, they were comfortable because they had been with me for years—but they weren’t the best-looking shoes in my closet. That unnecessary task only made the ache in my heart feel sharper.

A few days later, I shared the experience with a co-worker. She gently insisted that I had misinterpreted the phrase “old shoe.” According to her, it was meant to express comfort and familiarity.

On the ride home, I fussed at myself for even bringing it up. “Why did you think anyone would understand?” I muttered. “Of course she took *Sis. Ethel’s side.” *Name changed for privacy.

By the time I pulled into the driveway, I was deep in a cycle of negative self-talk—criticizing myself for being too sensitive and for overanalyzing everything.

I’m not sure how long I carried the wound from that day, but I do know this: it reminded me of my younger years—on playgrounds where it seemed like everyone but me knew I was adopted.

The words hurled at recess were sharp.

Being called a “Cabbage Patch Kid.” Being told my parents weren’t my “real parents.” All of it sent me clinging to that old chant: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

But here’s the truth: that chant is a lie. Words do hurt.

It didn’t take long to connect the words spoken at church and on the playground with the deeper wound of my adoption story.

As adoptees, we often carry the weight of someone else’s actions. And when hurtful words are spoken—whether intentionally or carelessly—we sometimes internalize them as our own fault, our own burden to bear.

Many adoptees carry hidden wounds—inflicted by words that sting deeply, silently, and invisibly.

Eventually, I stopped looking for validation from others about whether the words should hurt.

They hurt.

And trying to explain why they hurt only made it worse.

So I turned to God.

I asked Him to heal me and make me whole. I confessed my anger—toward others for speaking carelessly, and toward myself for always taking things so personally.

And in that sacred space, I realized something powerful: my hurt mattered to Him.

The verse that has brought me the most comfort on this journey is Isaiah 43:1 (NIV):
“But now, this is what the Lord says—he who created you, Jacob, he who formed you, Israel: ‘Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.'”

That day, what echoed in my heart was this: I am His.

And because I am His, what matters to me—matters to Him.

So I sat with Him. I unpacked the invisible suitcase I’d been carrying for years. In the quiet of my room, I cried out, and He met me with comfort.
Through His love and patience, I understood—even hidden wounds matter to God.

My friend, this journey is hard. It’s layered. And yes, many times, it feels lonely.

But hear me: even when no one else sees or understands your pain, God does.
And that changes everything.

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Have you been carrying something quietly for too long?

Leave a comment if this spoke to you. You don’t have to name it—just know you’re not alone.