Kristen Alderman

"See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!"
1 John 3:1

Shame doesn't just make you feel bad about what you've done. It tells you who you are.

Addict. Convict. Failure. Too broken. Too far gone. Damaged goods.

I've worn every single one of those labels. And not because someone else put them on me — although some did — but because I believed them. Shame gave me an identity, and I accepted it like it was written in stone.

But God says something different. And His voice doesn't whisper from the corner. It speaks from the cross.

He says: Daughter. Redeemed. Chosen. Loved. Forgiven. Mine.

Do you see the difference? Shame defines you by your worst moment. Grace defines you by His greatest one.

Shame says, "Look at what you did." Grace says, "Look at what I did for you."

I spent years believing I was the sum total of my mistakes. That my mugshot was my identity. That the worst chapter of my life was the title of the whole book. And shame kept me locked in that story because as long as I believed it, I'd never step into the one God actually wrote for me.

But then grace interrupted. Not politely. Not gently. Grace kicked the door down and said, "That's not your name."

1 John 3:1 says we are called children of God — and then, as if He knew we wouldn't believe it, He adds: "And that is what we are." It's not aspirational. It's not something you earn after enough good days. It's already true. Right now. Before you clean up.
Before you prove anything. Before you feel worthy of it.

Shame says stay where you are. Grace says come as you are.

And friend? Grace wins. Every single time.

What label has shame given you that God never did? What would it change if you believed His name for you instead?

I stopped asking God to explain it and started asking Him to sit with me in it.

"But if we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, His Son, purifies us from all sin."
1 John 1:7

You want to know what shame does best? It makes you a really good actress.

I know because I was one for years. I learned how to smile in the right places. How to say "I'm fine" with enough conviction that people stopped asking. How to walk into church and look like I had it together while everything inside me was coming apart at the seams.

Shame taught me that hiding was safer than honesty. That performance was more acceptable than truth. That if I could just keep the mask on long enough, maybe no one would ever have to see what was underneath.

But hiding has a cost. And it's higher than most of us realize.

When you hide, you cut yourself off from the very thing that heals you — connection. Real, honest, terrifying connection. The kind where someone sees the worst of you and stays anyway. The kind that can only happen when you stop performing and start telling the truth.

That's what 1 John 1:7 is getting at. Walking in the light isn't about being perfect. It's about being seen. It's about dragging the things we've hidden in the dark out into the open and discovering that grace is already there waiting.

I wrote a whole book about this because I lived it. The things I hid almost destroyed me — not because they were too much for God, but because I believed they were too much for anyone to love. And shame told me that every single day until I finally let someone in.

The moment I stopped hiding was the moment healing began. Not because my story got prettier. But because the light got in.

Reflection: What are you performing right now instead of being honest about? Who is one safe person you could let in?

Teaser alert!! Things We Hide coming out soon!

This week, I was called out on something in me that still isn’t pretty.

Not a cute flaw.
Not a quirky personality trait.
A real, raw place that still needs Jesus.

And if I’m honest, it stung.

There’s something about being held accountable that makes you want to shrink back. To defend. To justify. To explain why you reacted the way you did. My flesh wanted to protect itself. But the Spirit kept whispering, Let Me do the refining.

Sanctification is not glamorous. It’s not filtered and polished. It’s uncomfortable. It exposes pride. It uncovers insecurity. It shines light on motives we thought were pure.

But it is mercy.

Because the Lord loves us too much to leave us as we are.

I keep holding onto this promise:

“For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.”
Philippians 1:6

He didn’t save us to abandon the process.
He didn’t call us to pretend we’re already finished.
He is committed to completing what He started.

Accountability is one of His tools.
Conviction is kindness.
Correction is love.

If you’ve been confronted this week… if something in you has been exposed… don’t run from it. Don’t numb it. Don’t hide.

Lean in.

Let Him prune what doesn’t belong. Let Him soften what’s hard. Let Him reshape what’s crooked.

Refining feels like fire sometimes. But fire purifies gold.

We are still becoming. And that is not failure. That is faithfulness at work.

He is not done with you. And He is not done with me.

Broken bodies still hold unbreakable spirits.

The worst news of your life is not the last chapter of your story.

"Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus." — Romans 8:1

Shame doesn't usually show up loud. It doesn't kick the door down. It whispers. It creeps. It moves into the corners of your mind so quietly that by the time you notice it's there, it's already rearranged all the furniture.

And the worst part? It disguises itself as truth.

You should have known better. You're too much. You're not enough. If they really knew you — the real you — they'd leave. Everyone always does.

I carried shame for years like it was something I owed. Like it was the price of admission for the life I'd lived. I thought shame was what I deserved for the choices I'd made, the places I'd been, the things I'd done. And so I let it stay. I gave it a seat at the table. I let it speak over me every single morning before my feet hit the floor.

But here's what God showed me — and it wrecked everything I thought I knew: shame is not from Him. Conviction? Yes. The Holy Spirit will convict you and lead you to repentance. But shame? Shame doesn't lead you anywhere. It just pins you to the floor and tells you to stay there.

Romans 8:1 doesn't say "there is now limited condemnation." It doesn't say "there is now condemnation only for the really bad stuff." It says no condemnation. None. For those who are in Christ Jesus, the gavel has already come down — and the verdict is grace.

If shame has been living in your house rent-free, it's time to serve an eviction notice. You were never meant to carry it. It was never yours to hold.

What lie has shame been whispering to you that you've been treating as truth?

The phone call that changed everything didn't change God.

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." Psalm 34:18

Some pain knocks on the door. You see it coming. You brace yourself.

And then there's the kind that doesn't knock at all. The phone call at 2 a.m. The diagnosis no one expected. The person who was here yesterday and isn't today. The news that splits your life into "before" and "after" and doesn't care whether you were ready.

Loss doesn't wait for a convenient time. Death doesn't schedule itself around your capacity to handle it. And unexpected news has a way of unraveling every plan you thought God had approved.

I've sat in those moments. I've been the woman staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m. whispering, "God, where are You in this?" And I wish I could tell you that I immediately felt His arms around me. Sometimes I did. And sometimes? Sometimes the silence was deafening.

But here's what I know to be true — not because it's a nice thing to say, but because I've lived it: God is closest to us when we are the most broken. Not when we've cleaned ourselves up. Not when we've processed our grief into something presentable. He draws near when we are crushed. That's His promise. And He has never broken a promise.

Trusting God when life blindsides you doesn't mean pretending the pain isn't real. It means believing — even with shaking hands and a cracked voice — that He is working in what you cannot see. That He holds what you've lost. That the people you've buried are not gone from His sight. That the future you didn't plan is still held in hands that have never dropped you.

You don't need to understand the plan to trust the Planner.

And if today is one of those "after" days — if you're reading this from the other side of news that wrecked you — I need you to know something. You are not alone. You are not forgotten. And the God who is close to the brokenhearted? He's right here. Right now. Closer than your next breath.

What loss or unexpected moment are you still carrying alone? Can you open your hands — even just slightly — and let God hold it with you?

Hospital gowns have a way of stripping you down to nothing but faith.

"Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me."
Psalm 23:4

There is a specific kind of fear that comes when your own body becomes something you can't control.

I know this fear. Not from a textbook. Not from a sermon illustration. I know it from hospital gowns and pre-op rooms and waking up after brain surgery — twice — wondering what comes next. I know it from scans and waiting rooms and the kind of silence that fills a room when a doctor pauses just a second too long before speaking.

Here's what nobody prepares you for: health battles don't just test your body. They test your theology. It's easy to say "God is in control" when your life feels manageable. It's a completely different thing to believe it when you're lying on a gurney and you can't control whether you wake up the same person you were before.

But I've learned something in those valleys that I couldn't have learned anywhere else — God doesn't just walk us through the dark. He walks with us in it. Psalm 23 doesn't say He removes the valley. It says He's present in it. His comfort isn't the absence of pain. It's His presence in the middle of it.

When I woke up from my second brain surgery two weeks ago, I didn't wake up with all the answers. I woke up with Him. And some days, that's the only thing I have to hold onto. But friend — it's enough. He is enough.

If you're in a health battle right now — if your body feels like a war zone and your faith feels thin — you don't need to perform trust. You don't need to smile and say you're fine. You're allowed to be afraid. You're allowed to cry. You're allowed to say, "God, I don't understand this." He can handle your honesty. He always could.

Trust isn't the absence of fear. It's choosing to believe He's with you even when the fear is loud.

What are you afraid to say to God right now? He already knows — and He's not going anywhere.

Sobriety didn't make my life easier. It made my life mine again.