You keep your guard up. Always.
Shoulders tense.
Fists clenched.
Heart armored.

Because you’ve been hit too many times.
Blindsided.
Betrayed.
Broken.

You’ve learned to expect the storm.
So you brace for impact.
Again.
And again.
And again.

But here’s the truth no one told you:
You can’t feel the whisper of the Holy Spirit through that steel-plated armor of fear.
The wind of His presence doesn’t rattle cages of mistrust.
It fills the sails of those who dare to let go.

“Today, if you will hear His voice, do not harden your hearts…”
— Hebrews 3:15

You can’t keep bracing for the next punch and still be open to the gentle leading of God.
The posture of survival is not the posture of surrender.
They don’t coexist.

One looks like clenched fists and shallow breath.
The other looks like arms raised and knees to the floor.

But I get it.
Oh, God, I get it.

This state of survival is where I lived for so many years.
And I wondered—
Why is it so hard to pray?
Why does God’s voice sound like silence?
Why do I snap so easily?
Why am I always on edge, too angry to feel, too tired to try?

That anger…
It wasn’t rage.
It was fear in war paint.
It was a desperate attempt to fight against what my heart so innately wanted to do.

To love again.
To be open.
To be soft.
To be whole.

But softness felt dangerous.
Love felt like a setup.
And trust?
Trust felt like stepping into fire without flameproof skin.

I found myself admitting to my husband that I live my life constantly on guard, waiting for the next punch in the face.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
My nervous system didn’t know how to relax.
Even peace felt like a threat—because in my world, peace always came right before the blow.

I was terrified to be tender—because the last time I was, I got destroyed.

So I hardened.
I performed.
I stayed busy doing for God, terrified of actually being with Him.

But no amount of performance can heal what only PRESENCE was meant to touch.

“And I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you.
And I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.”
— Ezekiel 36:26

Let Him do it.
Let Him touch the scar.
Even if your body flinches and your soul screams.
Even if you don’t know how to stop bracing, flinching, running.

He already knows where you’ve been.

“You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me.”
— Psalm 139:5

What if His hand doesn’t crush—but heals?
What if the same voice that thundered at Sinai now calls your name with the gentleness of a lover?
What if the pain you’re still bracing for is already nailed to a cross you forgot how to look at?

Surrender doesn’t always look spiritual.
Sometimes it’s ugly.
It’s trembling lips.
Snot-stained prayers.
Gut-deep groans that words can’t reach.

But He understands those.
He interprets broken.
He translates shattered.

“The Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.”
— Romans 8:26

Let go.
Not because life won’t hit again.
But because you don’t have to take the hit alone anymore.

If you find yourself holding back, wondering why you haven’t felt the presence of God in so long. If this message cuts close to the bone, and you are longing to be as tender-hearted as you once were before pain crushed your spirit, I invite you to pray with me…

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Father…
I am so tired of bracing.
So exhausted from living in a war zone long after the battle has ended.

I confess—I’ve called it discernment, but it was fear.
I’ve called it strength, but it was self-protection.
I’ve called it wisdom, but it was woundedness dressed in scripture.

Break my armor, God.
Not to expose me to more pain,
But to free me from the prison I built to survive.

Tear down every wall I raised in Your name.
Silence every lie I believed that told me You were harsh, that You would hurt me.

Breathe life into these bones.
Let me feel again.
Let me love again.
Let me trust—slowly, trembling, but truly.

And if I collapse in the process, catch me.
Wrap me in Your wings.
Soften my heart until I can hear You again.
Touch the places trauma buried, and resurrect me.

I don’t want to live braced for impact.
I want to live broken… and led.
Vulnerable… and victorious.
Soft… and safe.
Because You are not the storm, Lord.
You are the stillness after it.
You are the peace in the storm that I forgot was possible.

So I yield.
Even if I do it scared.
I yield.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

L. Abigail Bradeen