When Lust Fights Back

Hey ladies,

So I just got back from Whole Foods, and honestly—I’m shaken. Not in a dramatic way, but in that quiet, humbling, God-just-put-me-in-my-place kind of way.

I had all these thoughts on the drive, and I told myself I was going to record them earlier at lunch. But, of course, I forgot. So here we are.

Let’s just get straight to it:
Lust is something I struggle with.

Not in a cute, giggle-it-off way. I mean deeply. Painfully. Regretfully. It's something that’s whispered to me when I’m lonely. Something that’s taken over before I even realized I opened the door. Something that I keep thinking I’ve buried—only for it to show up with a screenshot, a text message, a memory, a sting.

Yesterday I gave in again. I redownloaded Tinder. I was feeling lonely, bored, whatever. And I sent my number to a few guys, one of them being a guy named Michael. We had matched before, apparently had texted before too—but I had deleted the thread. I didn’t even remember.

He reminded me real fast.
With a screenshot.
Of me.
Of lustful messages I had sent him months ago. Messages I’m so ashamed of.

September me. The version of me that was in the pit. The girl I’ve been trying to leave behind.

And there she was. In black and white. Taunting me.

I tried to brush it off, told him I’m different now, told him I’m working on it. I told him what I really want—commitment, love, a husband, a house, someone to go to church with.

He said he wanted that too.
But then, he sent the screenshot again.
"Maybe we can do this in the meantime," he said.

My heart sank.

I tried to explain—I don’t want “this” anymore. I don’t want hookups. I don’t want meaningless conversations that end in regret. I want something real. And honestly, I want to wait until marriage. But I knew even as I said it, he wasn’t listening.

Then came the punch:
“Well, if you didn’t start our first convo like that, maybe I would’ve taken you seriously.”

Oof.

And you know what? He’s not wrong.
It was a moment of painful truth.
Not because I believe I’m disqualified from love or commitment now—but because it reminded me of how real the consequences of lust are. How it lingers. How it clouds the way people see you. How it cheapens things that are meant to be sacred.

And yeah, maybe it was God humbling me.
I keep pretending like I’m doing so great—sharing little wins, preaching progress—and meanwhile I’m redownloading Tinder like it’s a revolving door. Letting the loneliness win. Falling into old patterns.

Repenting, but not really changing.

And then this verse popped into my head while I was pulling into the parking lot. I don’t remember where exactly it’s from, but Jesus is talking to the woman at the well. She says she doesn’t have a husband, and He tells her she’s had several. It hit me like a brick.

Because I’ve had 23.
Twenty-three men.
And only one ever loved me.

That’s a hard sentence to write.
Harder to accept.
But I say it because I’m tired of lying to myself. Tired of pretending like my past doesn’t affect my present. Tired of wanting a husband when I haven’t been living like a wife.

God keeps sending men who don’t stay.
Not because I’m cursed.
Not because I’m unlovable.
But because I’m not ready.

This is not bad luck.
It’s God protecting me.
And correcting me.

Lust has mocked me. Laughed at me. Sat me down and played back my worst moments like a highlight reel. And I’m disgusted. But more than that—I’m done.

I don’t want to carry September me into March.
I don’t want to bring her into my future.
I’m ready to actually change, not just talk about it.

If you’ve ever felt like your past disqualifies you—like your old self keeps showing up and ruining everything—just know you're not alone.

But also know:
Conviction is not condemnation.
And calling out your mess is often the first step in cleaning it up.

So yeah… I got humbled.
But maybe I needed it.
Maybe you do too.

<3