This Is My Gospel | by Ellie Wilde
“Son, are you weary with the troubles in life?”
Fuck…..
I am exhausted with all the hardships life throws. Life is merciless — even more so when you’re carrying the burdens alone.
I’ve carried it all: mine and everyone else’s. Other people’s chaos, silence, insecurities, fears — all stacked on top of my own survival.
I took my heartache with wine, with rage, with silence, with whatever kept me upright and sane.
“Are you haunted by the ghost you know?”
Ghosts? Try an army, strategically placed for an ambush.
The ones I knew, the ones I never met, and the one I buried — my true self, locked behind a mask of strength and silence.
I’ve been clawing my way out for as long as I can remember. And goddamn, I am fucking done being the quiet little people pleaser.
“Pay ‘em off with kindness, the debt you owe…”
Kindness is currency, sure. But no one tells you how often you’re forced to overpay.
Made to feel like basic human decency is something you owe back, while others underpay and under-care.
No fucking more.
I’ll pay it forward — to the quiet souls like me. The depleted but still fucking trying. That’s the only debt I recognize now.
“Father, are you tired? Full of despair?”
I can’t fake it anymore.
The exhaustion shows, seeps from my pores like the morning after a long night of drinking.
Despair drips off me, even when I smile.
I’ve lived as a fish out of water — gasping, flailing — ever since I began choosing to choose differently.
Healing cracked me wide open, and I’m still gasping at times.
But it’s not the same gasp.
It’s not out of fear. It’s not me grasping for crumbs of oxygen.
It’s the sound of a soul learning to breathe for the first time.
“This is my gospel. This is my truth.”
I don’t have a choir, but I’ve got a voice — one I’m finally learning to use.
I don’t have a tribune, but I’ve got a story.
My soul still bleeds, but it no longer hides.
This is my gospel, my truths.
“Fish out of water, a-gaspin' for air? At the mercy of your troubled soul?”
That line? Cuts deep. Every single time.
Because I live it. I feel it.
I’m a fish tossed into a new sea — vast, unfamiliar, endless.
The gasp? It’s real.
Gasping to release the toxic air I was given. Gasping to draw in clean air I can’t get enough of.
Every fucking day, I battle an internal war — a civil war between who I once was… and who I refuse to keep being.
This isn’t a hymn.
It’s a howl.
And if it resonates — turn up the volume.
My Gospel is more than a song.
It sings directly to my soul.
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