When Charm Isn't Character

There are people you meet in life who arrive like sunlight. Warm, bright, and almost too easy to trust. And then, slowly, like a shadow stretching at dusk, something shifts.

I once knew someone like that.

At first, everything about them felt effortless. They spoke with confidence, laugh easily, and carried stories like polished stones; smooth and convincing. But over time, I began to notice the cracks beneath the shine. Words did not always align with actions. Truth bent just enough to make you question your own memory.

It reminded me of what the Bible say:

"A double minded man is unstable in all his ways" - James 1:8 (KJV)

Instability is subtle at first. It disguises itself as misunderstanding, as busyness, as coincidence. But patterns don't lie. When someone's character is questionable, it's rarely because of one mistake and it's the repetition that reveals it.

There is a kind of grief in realizing that someone you wanted to believe in, may not be who they presented themselves to be. It feels like betrayal, even if no dramatic offense occurred. 

Scripture warns gently but clearly:

"He that walketh uprightly walketh surely: but he that perverteth his ways shall be known." - Proverbs 10:9 (KJV)

Character always reveals itself. Maybe, not immediately. Maybe, not loudly. But SURELY.

I wrestled with myself once again. I asked if I was being judgmental. If I was too sensitive. If I expected too much. But I believe, discernment is not cruelty. In fact, it protected me.

The Bible also reminds us:

"Be not deceived: evil communications corrupt good manners." - 1 Corinthians 15:33 (KJV)

I become like what I tolerate. I slowly excused what once disturbed me. And without realizing it, it lowered my standards just to maintain proximity. 

So I stepped back.

Not with anger or resentment. Not with any dramatic confrontation. 

Just quiet distance.

Because peace is more valuable than any other things for me right now. Because once you lose my trust, nothing will ever be the same. 

This acquaintance taught me something important. Charm is not character. Words are not integrity. And familiarity is not loyalty. 

In the end, I prayed for wisdom more than approval. To ask God not only for kind people in my life, but for truthful ones.

And perhaps, most importantly, to examine my own heart too.

Because it is so easy to write about someone else's questionable character.

It is harder, and holier, to guard my own.

Torn Between Fighting Back and Letting Go

I used to fight back when I was younger. I wasn't the kind of girl who quietly sat in a corner when something went wrong. Oh no. My heart and soul would ignite the second I felt disrespected. If something was off, I was already off with it.

My best friend, Joanna, used to call me "the expressive one." Back in college, if there was a riot somewhere on campus, she'd assume I was probably in the middle of it, not necessarily throwing punches, but definitely throwing words. Passionate words. Dramatic words. Possibly words that required censoring.

The old me? She was built like, "You want war? I'll bring the soundtrack."

But somewhere along the way, that girl slowly drifted off. No dramatic exit. No resignation letter. She just...faded. One day I realized I had become quiet. Suspiciously quiet.

Now when people disrespect me, drag my name, throw subtle insults, or straight-up call me names, I just stand there like a calm monk who accidentally wandered into chaos.

I. Just. Keep. Quiet.

It's almost funny. The old Junalie would've delivered a TED talk on Why You're Wrong and Possibly Embarrassing. The current version? She blinks. She nods. She goes home and eat snacks.

And here's the strange part: I still get upset. I cry. I feel hurt. But the rage? Gone. The resentment? Missing. Even my inner voice forgot how to curse. I used to have a vocabulary that could set a building on fire. Now, I can’t even summon a mild insult in my thoughts. 

One person asked me, "Why are you letting yourself be treated like this?"

Good question. I'd also like to know.

Recently, I had a bad encounter with someone I can't confidently call a friend. Let's just say "acquaintance with questionable character." I've been patient for so long, but that day I reached my boiling point.

And by boiling point, I mean I cried...silently.

I was upset. Deeply. But here's the twist: I couldn't hate the person.. I tried. I searched for anger like it was misplaced car keys. Nothing. Just...disappointment.

Meanwhile, another voice (probably the ghost of College Junalie) whispered, "Fight back. If you keep allowing this, they'll think it's okay." 

And she's not wrong.

If you constantly absorbed disrespect without reaction, people might assume you're made of emotional shock absorbers. Spoiler alert: I am not.

So now I'm torn.

Do I fight back and resurrect the expressive queen? Or do I let go and preserve my peace like a mature, evolved human being who drinks water and minds her business?

Here's what I'm starting to realize: silence is not always weakness. Sometimes it's control. Sometimes it's growth. And sometimes it's just exhaustion from arguing with people who have the emotional depth of a teaspoon.

The old me fought because she had something to prove. The new me stays quiet because she has nothing to prove.

But quiet doesn't mean passive. Letting go doesn't mean allowing abuse. Peace doesn't mean permitting disrespect. 

Maybe the real glow-up isn't choosing war or silence. Maybe it's knowing when to speak with precision and when to walk away like a classy villain in slow motion.

So no, I don't think something is wrong with me.

I think I'm evolving.

And if I ever do decide to fight back?

Trust me.

I still remember how.

A Letter To God

Today, marks a quiet but powerful milestone in my life: I finally finished reading the Old Testament. 

For the past six months, I walked through it day by day, sometimes only a chapter, sometimes a few, until, at last, I reached the final page. And as simple as that sounds, it feels anything but small. It feels sacred.

Dear Lord God, 

Thank You, for the desire You placed in my heart, for the strength You gave me on days I felt tired, and for the Spirit that carried me through every page. Through every chapter, I came to know You more deeply. I saw how endless Your mercy is. How immeasurable Your love is, not just for the faithful, but for humanity as a whole.

Through Your Word, I learned who You are. I learned Your ways, Your statues, Your commandments. I get to know Your rage and Your justice, Your discipline and Your forgiveness. I get to know how time and time again, people turned away from You, made the same mistakes, broke the same promises, grieved Your heart over and over again. And yet...You still called them back.

"Turn to Me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning."

-Joel 2:12

And every time, they were forgiven.

And somewhere along those pages, You began refining me. Quietly. Gently. Sometimes, painfully. You reshaped my heart into something stronger, something more honest. Even now, I am still in awe of the transformation You have done in my life.

There were days during this journey when I felt overwhelmed by emotions. I couldn't explain. I faced challenges, troubles, and inner battles I never expected. In my prayers, I asked You to let me walk the righteous path because I wanted, truly wanted, to follow You. But instead of peace, I felt pulled into seasons of sadness, anger, disappointment, and confusion.

I questioned You. I questioned myself. I didn't understand. 

But now I see it, You allowed it because You were preparing me.

When I look back, I realize I am stronger than I've ever been. My faith in You has grown beyond measure. You taught my heart how to endure, how to stand firm, how to trust even when nothing made sense. You made me confident not in myself, but in You. And somehow, through it all, You made me love You even more. 

Lord, my deepest desire is to be in Your kingdom someday.

Thank You for giving me the chance to read the Bible while I am still alive. 

What an honor. What a gift to be among those who get to know Your story, Your heart, Your truth, And this is not the end. I still have a long journey ahead of me. 

I still have the New Testament waiting.

Thank You for the gift of life.

Thank You for bringing me into this world.

Thank You for allowing me to experience Your creation.

And most of all Lord, thank You for giving me the chance to know You.

I love you with all my heart.

With love, 

Junalie

Thinking About Death

Some nights, death sits beside me.

Not loudly. Not threateningly. Just present. It shows up when the room is dark and the world feels still, when my thoughts slow down enough for truth to catch up with me. I don't invite it, but I don't always push it away anymore.

I used to be afraid of even thinking about death. Now I realize it wasn't death I feared. It was the unknown. The thought of leaving things unfinished. Of people I love standing in places where I once was. Of silence where my voice used to be.

The Bible says: "So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom" -Psalm 90:12 (KJV)

Tonight, that verse feels less like a warning and more like a prayer. Teach me, Lord. Teach me how to live knowing this life is temporary without becoming afraid of it.

There are moments when my faith feels steady, and moments when it feels fragile. I don't always feel brave. Sometimes, I just feel human. And I'm learning that God is not offended by my honesty.

Jesus wept.

Two words. Heavy with meaning.

"Jesus wept." -John 11:35 (KJV)

If He allowed Himself to grieve, then my tears are not failures. They are proof that I love deeply, that I feel deeply. Grief is not a lack of faith, it is faith stretched thin.

I think about death, and strangely, it teaches me how to live. It reminds me to be softer. To let go of anger faster. To stop postponing love as if time is unlimited. Tomorrow is not promised, but grace still is.

"For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain." -Philippians 1:21 (KJV)

I don't fully understand that verse yet. Some days I believe it with confidence. Other days, I whisper it like a question. But tonight, I choose to trust that death is not an ending. It's a crossing.

"I am the resurrection, and the life." -John 11:25 (KJV)

If that is true, and I believe it is, then death is not something to run from. It is something already defeated.

So tonight, I write this not to glorify death, but to make peace with it. To remind myself that while my life is fragile, my hope is not. And when my final breath comes, whenever that may be, I pray it carries trust instead of fear.

Until then, I will live.

I will love.

I will believe.

And I will leave the rest in God's hands.

When I Asked to Walk With God, and the Ground Gave Way

 

One of my prayers every night is this:

"Lord, give me a chance to walk with You. To follow You completely. To walk in the righteous path."

And then, for days, everything unraveled.

Instead of clarity, I was handed struggle after struggle. My patience was stretched until it tore. The deepest core of my emotions was crushed, ground down until I no longer recognized myself. It felt like I was dragged into the lowest pit, a place where light barely reached. Negative thoughts swarmed me, relentless and suffocating, until there came a moment when I didn't want answers anymore. I just wanted to disappear.

I was shaken to my core.

I cried out to God with no polish left in my words. 

"Why am I feeling like this?" 

"Why is all of this happening now, when my faith in You is stronger than ever?"

"I asked for a chance to walk with You, so why does the path like thorns, stones, and rubble cutting into my feet?"

I didn't understand. I still don't understand, at least not fully.

Then came my dream.

I can't remember every detail, only the weight of it. I was standing on the edge of a deep cliff. Beside me stood a man in a long white robe. We were looking down as buildings, massive rocks, cars, entire structures were being swallowed whole, pulled into destruction as if the ground itself had given up. Then everything shifted into chaos.

I wasn't part of it. I was only an observer.

I stood on a rock as floodwaters surged below. In the water lay a young female child; naked, lifeless, her long hair spread around her, placed on a cardboard box like something discarded. And I did nothing. I just stood there, watching. Unable to move. Unable to save. Awake inside the dream, but powerless.

When I woke, I told myself it was just another strange dream. Lately I've been having many.

But later, standing alone in the bathroom, a thought struck me with terrifying clarity:

God is testing me.

Not in comfort, but in descent.

Not by lifting me up but by dragging me down to the lowest point, to see how deep my faith truly goes when there is nothing left to hold onto.

Because I have always said I wanted to follow Him completely.

And following Him was never promised to be easy.

I thought of the story of Job, how faith is not proven in abundance, but in loss. How righteousness is not revealed in safety, but in suffering. Maybe this is only the beginning. Maybe there are still more trials ahead. More stripping. More silence. More moments when God feels impossibly far, even as He is closest.

I don't know if I am strong.

I don't know if I am ready.

All I know is that I asked to walk with Him, and now I am learning that walking with God does not always mean walking on solid ground. Sometimes it means walking through collapse, through grief, through questions with no immediate answers.

And still choosing not to turn back.

When Heaven Felt Near

I really wasn't sure if I was going to open up about what happened to me earlier. I don't even know if you'll believe me. But I can't help myself. I feel compelled to share such beautiful thing that happened to me. 

On my way to work, riding quietly in the car, I put on my earphones and pressed play on a praise and worship song. The familiar melody filled the small space around me. I leaned against the window and closed my eyes, letting the music carry what my words couldn't.

Then it happened.

I had a vision.

I was on top of the water, kneeling. The surface beneath me was calm, steady, defying logic, yet filled with peace.And then slowly, I stood up. And there, before me, was a man. His hair was long, falling near his elbows. I couldn't see His face because He was surrounded by an overwhelming light. Too radiant, too holy to look at directly. All I could see is His arm, extended toward me, as if gently calling me closer, saying without words, "Come to Me." 

And then I woke up.

I opened my eyes, back in the car, back in this world. But something in me had shifted. In that exact moment, the first message that echoed in my mind was this: God hears all my prayers. Not some of them. Not only the spoken ones. But even the silent cries, the whispered doubts, the prayers I could barely form.

My chest felt heavy and light all at once. Tears fell freely without warning. I lifted my eyes toward the sky, not caring who might see.

In that moment, I understood something profound: I was never unheard. I was never unseen. Every tear, every plea, every late-night conversation with God had reached Him. 

Jesus is real.

My God is alive.

He is the way, the truth, and the life.

Some encounters don't ask to be proven or explained. They simply arrive, meet you where you are, and remind you, gently but powerfully, that heaven is closer than we think, and God has been listening all along. 

I am smiling and crying at the same time while writing this right now. My heart still trying to catch up with what my soul already knows.

Emotional Autopsy

At some point in my life, something inside me stopped responding.

Not dramatically.

No breakdown. No tears

Just a quiet shutdown like a switch flipped when no one was looking.

I was scolded often when I was new. Blamed when things went wrong. Questioned even when there was no proof.

At first, I resisted. I explained. I defended. I felt.

That phase didn't last.

Repeated blame doesn't need to be loud to be effective. It just needs to be consistent. 

So I adapted the only way the mind knows how when escape isn't possible: I reduced myself.

I learned that anger changes nothing. That disappointment wastes energy. That fairness is irrelevant when power has already decided the story.

Eventually, my emotions became inefficient. So my system archived them.

Now, when accusation come, there is no internal reaction. 

No spike in pulse.

No tightening in the throat. 

No need to be understood.

Just compliance without agreement. Silence without peace.

This is not acceptance. This is dissociation dressed up as professionalism.

I didn't forgive them.

I didn't grow past it.

I simply stopped granting the situation access to my nervous system.

The danger isn't that I no longer feel anger. The danger is that I no longer register injustice as a threat.

That rewires a person.

It teaches you to tolerate what should alarm you. To remain functional while being diminished. To mistake emotional absence for stability.

And this follows you.

You let people interrupt you.

Cross lines.

Rewrite events.

Because somewhere along the way, you learned that resistance costs more than silence. 

One day, the numbness will fail.

It always does.

And when it does, it won't ask politely.

It will arrive as exhaustion with no cure, rage with no target, or grief with no origin.

This is not who I am.

This is what happens when a person is blamed long enough that their mind chooses disappearance over pain.

Final verdict:

I am not broken.

I am adapted to a hostile environment.

And adaptations meant for survival should never be mistaken for a life.

The Night the Elevator Took Me Somewhere Else

Last night, I was convinced it was the end of me.

My workplace is located in one of the tallest buildings in Lusail, Qatar. My clinic sits on the 8th floor, and every night after work I follow the same routine: bathroom break, then elevator straight down to the ground floor. 

Except last night, I didn't. 

I skipped the bathroom and went directly to the elevator lobby. While waiting, I pulled out my phone, put on my earphones, and played Dorado's playlist, my usual way of zoning out after a long shift. The wait felt longer than usual, so without much thought, I pressed the ground floor button again.

The doors beside me opened.

I stepped inside without checking the screen because I was certain I had pressed zero. I stayed distracted, scrolling through my playlist, letting the music drown out the silence.

But the ride felt...wrong.

Too long.

I finally looked up at the screen.

38.

I was going up.

Panic hit me all at once. I started pressing everything. Every button within reach only to realize there were no floor buttons inside the elevator. Just open, close, and a bell. I pressed them all but nothing happened. The elevator didn't slow down. It didn't stop.

It kept climbing.

I tried to calm myself, forcing a nervous joke in my head:

"Ah sige nalang...maybe I'll just get a quick look at the top floor."

The elevator stopped at the 36th floor. The doors opened painfully slow. No one came in. The doors stayed open longer than normal, as if waiting for something, or someone, then closed again. The elevator resumed its ascent.

38. The doors opened.

I stepped out and immediately realized something was wrong. The floor was dark. Empty. Unfinished. Plastic sheets covered the walls, wood and cement scattered everywhere. It was clearly under renovation. The air felt heavy, stale, like it hadn't been disturbed in a long time.

Then someone passed by.

A middle-age Middle Eastern man, not very tall, wearing a white shirt. I froze where I stood. He stopped and looked me over from head to toe.

"Inti mamnu hena" he muttered. You are not allowed here.

My voice came out shaky. "Fi mushkila...hag elevator, brother. There's a problem with the elevator." 

He glared at me, then switched to English.

"Go. Leave now. Or you won't get to leave anymore."

My blood ran cold. 

I didn't argue. I didn't think. I pressed zero and ran back inside the elevator.

As the doors were about to close, a hand stopped them.

An American man stepped in. He was wearing a suit and holding a brownish-black case. Relief washed over me. I wasn't alone anymore.

Or so I thought.

As the elevator descended, a question crept into my mind. "Where did he come from?" There was no one else on that floor. Just me and the other man. 

I glanced at him again.

He was unnaturally pale. His face looked hollow, drained of life. There was a deep violet bruise on his cheek, and beads of sweat rolled down his face despite the cold air inside the elevator. He looked...sad. Empty.

I checked his reflection in the mirror. He was staring straight at me.

My entire body went cold, like I had been dropped into a freezer. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I turned my eyes back to the screen, watching the numbers crawl downward far too slowly.

The ride felt endless.

Finally, the doors opened. 

I rushed out without looking back. 

And then my heart stopped.

I was back on the 38th floor.

The darkness. The plastic. The unfinished walls.

I froze.

That was when I heard a loud ambulance siren from the street, our room being so close to the constant bustle outside. 

I woke up gasping for air, my heart pounding violently in my chest. I grabbed my phone and checked the time.

3:12 a.m. 

I didn't sleep again after that.

And now, every time I step into an elevator, I make sure to look at the screen.

Every single time.

Because I'm not sure...

If I really woke up...

Or if I just finally made it back.

Trusting God When Nothing Makes Sense

 "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight." 

Proverbs 3:5-6

If I am being honest, this verse has tested me more than it has comforted me. Because trusting God is easy when life is going well. When prayers are answered quickly, when plans fall neatly into place, when the future looks clear and promising, so it feels natural to say "Yes, Lord, I trust You." But this verse doesn't exist for those moments. It exists for the seasons when nothing makes sense at all.

There have been times in my life when I thought I had everything figured out. I made plans carefully, thought things through logically, and convinced myself that I knew what was best. And yet, those were often the moments when everything unraveled. Doors closed. Opportunities disappeared. People I thought would stay walked away. And I was left staring at the mess, asking God "Why would You let this happen?"

That is where Proverbs 3:5-6 becomes uncomfortable, because it asks me to stop leaning on my own understanding a lot. I want explanations. I want timelines. I want guarantees. I want God to bless my plan instead of asking me to surrender it. 

But this verse reminds me that trust is not about clarity. Trust is about surrender. 

Trusting God with all my heart means choosing to believe that He sees what I cannot. It means accepting that His silence does not mean His absence, and that delays are not denials. It means admitting that my perspective is limited, shaped by fear, pain, and impatience, while His perspective is ETERNAL.

"Submit to Him in all your ways" sound simple, but it is one of the hardest things to do. It means letting God lead not just in the big decisions, but in the daily ones. It means bringing Him into my doubts, my confusion, my exhaustion, and even my disappointment. It means saying, "I don't understand this, but I will still follow You."

And then there is the promise: He will make your paths straight.

Not easy. Not perfect. Not free from pain. But straight.

Looking back, I can see how God redirected me when I was headed toward things that would have broken me. I can see how unanswered prayers protected me. I can see how detours shaped me into someone stronger, more patient, and more dependent on Him. At the time, it felt like I was lost. In reality, I was being led.

This verse does not tell us that life will make sense. It tells us that God is trustworthy even when it doesn't. 

So today, I am learning, slowly and imperfectly, to loosen my grip on control. To stop demanding explanations. To trust that the God who holds my future also understands my present. And to believe that even when the road feels uncertain, He is still guiding every step.

Because sometimes, faith is simply choosing to walk forward even when you cannot see when the path leads, believing that God already does.

Leaning Less on Myself, Trusting More in God: A Proverbs Reflection

The Book of Proverbs has become one of the most meaningful books I have ever read in the Bible. I did not expect it to affect me the way it did, but somewhere between its verses, something in me began to shift. It changed me in ways I could not immediately explain. It widened my faith, sharpened my understanding, strengthened my principles, and reshaped how I see life itself.

What struck me most about Proverbs is its honesty. It doesn't sugarcoat wisdom, nor does execute foolishness. Instead, it gently, yet firmly holds up a mirror. As I read, I found myself reflecting on my past decisions, my wrongdoings, and the moments when I relied too heavily on my own judgment. In that process, surprisingly, instead of feeling condemned, I felt guided.

Every chapter felt practical, almost conversational, as if wisdom itself was sitting beside me, patiently offering counsel. Little by little, its words began to direct my steps toward a more righteous path, not through fear, but through understanding. 

There were passages that lingered in my mind long after I closed the Bible, but one in particular took my breath away: Proverbs 3:5-6

"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding." (KJV)

At first glance, the verse seems simple. But the more I sat with it, the deeper it became. It is a direct invitation and challenge to trust God fully, without reservation, and to stop depending solely on our own reasoning. It reminds us that our thoughts, no matter how confident or convincing they may seem, are still limited. They are shaped by emotion, fear, pride, and incomplete knowledge. 

Trusting the Lord with all our heart means surrendering the need to always be right, to always be in control, or to always understand everything before taking a step forward. It means acknowledging that God sees the whole picture when we only see fragments.

I realized that leaning on my own understanding had often led me to unnecessary worry, regret, and disappointment. But trusting God - truly trusting Him, offers peace even when answers are unclear. When we place our confidence in Him, we lost nothing. 

He is the One who plans with purpose, executes with precision, and evaluates with perfect wisdom. 

Proverbs taught me that wisdom is not just about knowing what is right, but about choosing to live out daily. And sometimes, the wisest thing we can do is admit that we do not know everything, and trust the One who does. :)

Messy Thoughts from a Semi-Functional Human

I would like to begin by clarifying one thing: I am technically functioning. I wake up (eventually), I go to work, I answer messages, sometimes days later and I keep myself alive with a combination of caffeine, overthinking, and pure spite. By all definitions, that counts as semi-functional.

My brain, however, is a different story.

Inside my head is a chaotic group chat where every thought talks at once. One moment I'm planning my entire future, career goals, financial stability, inner peace, and the next I'm aggressively replaying something embarrassing I said in 2010. No transitions. No warning. Just emotional whiplash. 

I will be washing dishes and suddenly think "Wow, what if I'm actually the problem?" Then immediately after "Should I eat tonight?" This is what personal growth looks like now, apparently.

I have lists. Soooo many lists. To-do lists, grocery lists, life goal lists. None of them are completed. I write them to feel productive, then reward myself with a nap for the emotional effort. My brain considers "thinking about doing something" as good as actually doing it. We are still negotiating. 

Okay let's talk about motivation. Mine shows up randomly, unannounced, usually in between 3-4am. And then I suddenly decide I will wake up at 5am, pray, drink coffee, water, write something on this blog site, fix my life, and become unrecognizable. By morning, that version of me has vanished like a scammer after one message. 

And yet, somehow, I manage. I laugh. I show up at work despite not wanting to. I keep going. Even with messy thoughts, unfinished plans, and a brain that refuses to calm down, I am still here, doing my best with what I have. Which, on some days, is the bare minimum, and that is still valid.

So, here's to all the semi-functional humans out there: the ones who are tired but trying, chaotic but caring, confused but still moving forward. We may not have it together, but we have personality, resilience, and at least one coping mechanism that probably isn't healthy. 

And honestly? That counts for something.