When One Sentence Became a Freefall

The Danger of Outsourcing Our Identity to the Minds of Others

I keep offering my self-worth to other people like it’s a coupon they can redeem whenever they feel like it. Half off April. Unlimited use. No expiration date. Restrictions? Apparently none.

And at church—God help me—I’ve basically become the emotional janitor. If there’s a mess to mop up, an awkward silence to fill, a rumor to redirect, a meltdown to soothe, I’m already halfway into fixing it before anyone else notices something spilled. It’s my spiritual side gig. My unofficial ministry of keeping things calm.

And honestly? Most days I don’t mind it. It makes me feel useful. Needed. Secure. Like I know who I am.

But usefulness is a brittle kind of worthiness.
One wrong move and it shatters.

Recently, it shattered.

The Spark That Lit the Wrong Fire

Our church had a controversy brewing—a man applying for music minister with a troubling history. A nineteen-year-ago incident involving a 17-year-old student. A plea deal that wiped it off the record, but whose details resurfaced and triggered fear, whispers, and frantic group texts.

And in the middle of all that, I was teaching my middle-school class.

ALL I did—all I did—was remind the kids not to judge or gossip or turn people into headlines. Nothing controversial. Nothing bold. Just the usual gentle nudge to slow down the rumor mill before it catches fire.

But the timing could not have been worse.

So when I said, “don’t judge,” it wasn’t heard as a broad life principle.

It was interpreted as:
“Don’t judge him. April supports predators.”

Which I absolutely do not believe.
Which I absolutely did not say.
Which I stand against with everything in me.
Which is not, in any universe, who I am.

But hysteria doesn’t do nuance.
It does velocity.

And within what felt like minutes, I wasn’t April the helper, the steady one, the emotional janitor.

I was April, the woman who “supports predators.”

Being miscast as a villain is one thing.
Being miscast as that kind of villain is something else entirely.

The Fall

It felt like falling down a well—deep, narrow, echoing—where everything I shouted up bounced off stone walls and came back warped. I couldn’t find my footing. I couldn’t find the surface.

The descent was fast.

First, just a sharp breath.
Then a drop.
Then a freefall.

My mind turned against me with frightening efficiency.
Every look felt loaded.
Every silence felt pointed.
Every casual “Hey, how are you?” became something to decode, decipher, dissect.

I couldn’t tell who was safe.
I couldn’t tell what people were thinking.
I couldn’t tell if I was imagining things or accurately sensing judgment.

It wasn’t paranoia—it was disorientation.

Like the world had shifted a few degrees off-center and expected me to walk straight.
Like I’d been pushed to the outskirts of my own story.

And then came the self-doubt—thick, sticky, relentless.

Was it my timing?
My phrasing?
Should I have said nothing at all?

This wasn’t dramatic darkness.
It was the slow, suffocating kind—the kind where air feels heavier than it should, and you forget who you were before the weight settled.

The Flicker

But eventually, something shifted.

Not a bright light.
Not clarity.
Just… a flicker.

A reminder that who I am—what I stand for—did not vanish because someone misheard me in the worst possible way.

A trembling truth surfaced:

My character lives in my integrity, not in someone else’s assumption.

The light didn’t come in clean or strong.
It came in foggy.
Diffused.
Like dawn when you’re not sure if the sun will actually break through, but you feel a faint warmth anyway.

I didn’t rise with confidence.
I rose like someone climbing out of debris—slowly, gingerly, unsure what still might collapse.

One morning, I stood in my kitchen staring at the coffee pot, watching it drip.
Just stood there. Watching brown liquid fill a glass carafe like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

And I realized:

I was still here.
Still standing.
Still making coffee.

The sky hadn’t fallen.
I hadn’t disappeared.

What I Know Now (Fog Included)

The clarity I reached wasn’t triumphant:

Being helpful isn’t the problem.
Caring isn’t the problem.
Being involved isn’t the problem.

The problem is outsourcing my identity to the reactions of people who only hear part of the story.
The problem is assuming that if I do enough, give enough, fix enough, I’ll be untouchable.
The problem is handing out coupons for my worth and being shocked when someone redeems one incorrectly.

I know I’ll fall into this trap again.
Maybe next week.
Maybe tomorrow.

But maybe—just maybe—I’ll recognize the fall sooner.
Maybe I’ll stop the freefall a few feet higher.
Maybe I’ll remember that the darkness isn’t truth; it’s just fear’s shadow.

So for now, I’m picking up my coupons.
I’m setting down the emotional mop.
And I’m doing something I’ve never done well:

I’m letting the light return slowly.
Unevenly.
Fog and all.

It’s not certainty.
It’s not resolution.
But it’s an opening.

And for now, that’s enough to keep me climbing.