Sitting with Judas

Who knew being able to see would be this painful?

For years, I prayed for God to let me see what He sees. I asked for what was hidden in the dark to be brought into the light, just like scripture says:
“Wait until the Lord comes, for He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and reveal the motives of every heart.”

I thought that kind of prayer would bring peace. I thought it would bring clarity, maybe even comfort. I didn’t realize it would break something open inside of me. Because when the light comes, it doesn’t just expose other people.
It exposes you.

The last few days have felt like something inside of me has been cracking open, and I don’t mean that in a poetic way. I mean in the most human, uncomfortable, can’t-catch-your-breath kind of way.

Sunday, I couldn’t get out of bed without crying. Not because anything dramatic had just happened, but because something in me knew the way I had been seeing my life was changing. And once you see something differently, you can’t go back to the version of reality that felt safer. What hurts the most is realizing it wasn’t just one situation. It wasn’t just one relationship.
It was a pattern.

A pattern I can now see running through so many connections in my life.

And the moment I saw it, everything shifted.
Conversations felt different.
Memories felt different.
Even the way I see myself feels different.

The hardest truth to admit is that the person I betrayed the most… was me.

Out of fear of being too much, too emotional, too needy, I silenced parts of myself that were asking for real effort, real consistency, real reciprocity. I convinced myself that expecting mutual energy meant I wasn’t being understanding enough.
I told myself that wanting balance made me selfish. I told myself that if I just loved harder, gave more, adjusted more, stayed longer, things would feel right eventually.

There were so many times I was told it was easier for me, so I should be the one to make the drive, the one to change the plan, the one to be flexible, the one to give a little more. And little by little, I accepted that role without realizing what it was doing to me.

I started to believe that if I wanted the same effort back, I was asking for too much.
If I wanted consistency, I was being needy. If I wanted to be met halfway, I was being difficult. And when I look back now, I can hear the voices that taught me that.

Too emotional.
Too sensitive.
Too intense.
Too much.

So I learned to shrink.
I learned to stay quiet.
I learned to call crumbs a meal.

And while I was trying to be understanding with everyone else…
I was betraying myself.

Over and over again.

Sitting at work the other day, trying to hold myself together, the image of the Eight of Swords kept coming to my mind. A woman looking in the mirror, seeing herself blindfolded and bound, when the ropes are loose and the cage is open. She isn’t trapped — she just believes she is.

That’s what this realization feels like.

Like my vision was never completely clear.
Like old narratives, old fears, old wounds were filtering everything I thought was love, everything I thought was connection, everything I thought was real.

And now I sit here asking myself questions I never wanted to ask.

How much of my life was one-sided? How many relationships survived because I carried them? How many doors were open the whole time, but I was too afraid to walk through them?

My self-worth feels like it’s on the witness stand,
and awareness is the cross-examination.

And as this shedding happens, I feel it everywhere.

Every room I walk into feels different. Every interaction feels different.
It’s like something in me is watching now, seeing what I couldn’t see before.

Not from victimhood.
Not from anger.
From foresight.

Jesus knew before it happened. He saw the truth sitting at the table with him. He still broke bread. He still stayed in the moment. Not because he was blind…
but because he could see clearly.

And I feel like I’m sitting in that kind of moment now. Not the moment of betrayal.
The moment before it.

The moment when your eyes open and you realize something wasn’t what you thought it was… and now you have to live with that knowing.

Sometimes the light doesn’t expose other people first.
Sometimes the light exposes the places where we chose not to see.

Not because we were weak.
Not because we were foolish.
But because part of us needed the illusion to be real.

And as painful as this is, I understand something now. Seeing clearly comes with a cost. Once your eyes open, you can’t close them again. Once the illusion breaks, you can’t pretend it didn’t. Once the light comes on, the darkness never feels the same.

“Blessed are your eyes because they see, and your ears because they hear.”

But no one talks about how heavy that blessing can feel. Because the more I see, the harder the questions become. Not just who hurt me? Not just who wasn’t really for me?

But…

Where did I stay when I knew something wasn’t right?
Where did I silence myself to keep the peace?
Where did I betray my own truth just to avoid being alone?

And the thought that keeps echoing in the quiet is the one I never expected.

Not about them.

About me.

If I ignored the truth…
If I stayed when my spirit knew…
If I chose comfort over honesty…

Then I have to ask the question I never thought I would ask myself.

Am I Judas?