I think one of the hardest things for people to grasp about God — or even about life itself — is the idea that “God is in everything” or that everything we go through is somehow ordained. I don’t believe that anymore. Not in the way it’s usually taught.
It’s not that every bad thing was planned for us. It’s that even in the bad — even in the things that were never meant for us — there is still a way through. There is still light. There is still grace.
For a long time, I thought God wanted me dead. I had cancer twice. I’ve lived with more health issues than I can count. I lost myself along the way. I found myself in situations I never would have chosen. And because so many painful things kept happening, I believed they had to mean something about me — about my worth, my purpose, my fate.
But 2025 changed that for me.
Not everything comes from God. But God will always meet us where we are.
My health has nearly been taken from me more times than I can count, and still, I’ve been given my life back. My strength back. My breath back. My mind has wandered into dark places, but I’ve always been brought back to clarity, to peace, to grounding. I’ve lost people without warning, lost versions of myself I thought I’d always have — and yet I’ve been given resilience, understanding, patience, and strength in return.
We have to unlearn the toxic versions of faith that tell us suffering is proof of God’s love. That pain is a test. That loss is a lesson sent to prove something.
Because even outside of religion, even if we strip it down to the most basic truth: nothing good sends bad just to prove how good it is.
That’s not love. That’s not light. That’s not how goodness works.
Goodness meets you in the bad.
Goodness walks with you through the darkness.
Goodness brings light when all you can feel is heavy.
Goodness doesn’t cause the storm — it helps you survive it.
And I think this truth matters even more in the world we’re living in now.
Our generation is carrying things no one prepared us for. We’re navigating adulthood in a time where nothing feels stable — not the economy, not relationships, not our bodies, not our minds, not even our sense of identity. We were raised on dreams that don’t fit the reality we inherited. We were promised paths that no longer exist.
In our twenties, we’re expected to have answers while still healing from things we barely understand. We’re told to be grateful, to be resilient, to “trust the process,” while we’re quietly drowning in burnout, grief, debt, illness, comparison, and uncertainty.
We’re grieving lives we haven’t even lived yet.
Social media shows us perfection while we’re learning how to survive. We watch everyone else’s highlight reels while we’re barely making it through our own days. We’re more connected than ever, yet lonelier than ever. We’re more informed than ever, yet more overwhelmed than ever.
And still, people ask why we’re tired.
We’re breaking generational cycles while carrying generational weight. We’re unlearning toxic beliefs about success, love, faith, and self-worth — all while trying to build something new with tools we were never given.
But this is where the same truth applies.
The world didn’t break us to prove its goodness.
Life didn’t hurt us to teach us a lesson.
We weren’t meant to suffer just so something beautiful could come later.
The good meets us in the chaos.
The light finds us in the uncertainty.
The strength grows in the in-between.
Our generation isn’t lost — we’re becoming.
We are the generation of softness and strength. Of healing and honesty. Of questioning and rebuilding. We don’t accept pain as destiny. We don’t romanticize struggle. We look for meaning without glorifying suffering.
We’re learning that it’s okay to fall apart.
It’s okay to start over.
It’s okay to not have it figured out.
Because growth doesn’t come from punishment — it comes from presence.
And even in a world that feels heavier than ever, the good still finds us. The light still shows up. We still rise.
And maybe that’s the real lesson our twenties are teaching us.
Not that life is fair.
Not that everything happens for a reason.
Not that pain makes us better people.
But that we are capable of surviving what we never asked for.
We are learning how to hold both grief and gratitude in the same hands. How to mourn what we lost while still honoring what we’ve gained. How to sit with uncertainty without letting it swallow us whole.
We are becoming people who don’t need perfection to feel worthy. People who don’t need certainty to feel safe. People who don’t need suffering to feel spiritual.
We are redefining what strength looks like.
It looks like rest.
It looks like honesty.
It looks like choosing yourself when the world tells you to keep sacrificing.
And in a generation that has seen so much loss, so much change, so much chaos, we are still choosing to believe in goodness — not because life has been easy, but because we’ve learned how to find light in the hardest places.
Not everything is divine.
Not everything is purposeful.
Not everything is meant to be.
But goodness still shows up.
Light still breaks through.
And we still rise.
That’s not destiny.
That’s resilience.
That’s humanity.
That’s hope.
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