What About the Boring Testimony?

Earlier this week, I had the pleasure of speaking with a young lady who said something that’s stopped me cold.

She looked at me with all sincerity and said,

“My testimony is boring. I’ve been in church my whole life. I don’t really have a story that would lead someone to Christ.”

And I told her, “I’ve been in church my whole life too, and I used to think that way too when I compared myself to others.”

But then I said something I’ve had to learn for myself:

“The most extraordinary thing about my testimony is that it’s not extraordinary to God. Because the things He’s done for me? He does every single day. That doesn’t make me any less of a miracle.”

We’ve convinced ourselves that only the dramatic stories matter—the ones with public falls and radical rescues. But here’s the truth:

Everyone hits rock bottom.

It just doesn’t always look the same.

Sometimes it’s addiction. Sometimes it’s jail. Sometimes it’s waking up with nothing left.

But sometimes?

It looks like slowly losing yourself in a prison of your own mind.

It looks like smiling through Sunday services while silently drowning.

It looks like laying in bed every night, begging God to just make it stop—without even knowing what it is.

It looks like living in your own personal hell on earth and feeling like no one even notices.

And the worst part?

You still show up. You still function. You still smile.

And because you didn’t collapse in public, people assume you’re fine.

But inside? You’ve been breaking for years.

I may have grown up knowing about Jesus, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t suffer.

And that doesn’t mean I didn’t need saving.

Some of us didn’t need to be rescued from the streets.

We needed to be rescued from our own thoughts.

From the lies we believed about our worth.

From perfectionism that wore us out.

From trauma responses that made us hard to love and impossible to rest.

And just because that battle was internal doesn’t make it any less miraculous.

And you know what? That still raises the dead.

Not everyone heals.

Not everyone receives what God is offering.

And not everyone understands just how hard it is to work with God to pull yourself out of a pit—especially when that pit is invisible to everyone else.

Nobody knows the demons you’ve had to fight.

Nobody knows the dark nights where you almost gave up. Nobody knows the thousand little deaths you died just to keep showing up.

But God does.

And that makes your story sacred.

Your “ordinary” testimony is extraordinary.

Because grace is extraordinary.

Because healing is extraordinary.

Because surviving what no one else knew you were going through?

That’s extraordinary.

So tell your story—even if it doesn’t sound dramatic.

Even if it’s still being written.

Even if it’s full of small wins and quiet breakthroughs.

Because someone out there needs to hear that rock bottom doesn’t always look like destruction.

Sometimes it looks like exhaustion.

Sometimes it looks like numbness.

Sometimes it looks like “I’m fine” when you’re not.

But the same God who raises the dead in public also revives the hurting in private.

And that kind of testimony—the kind forged in silence, in suffering, in secret survival?

That’s the one that changes lives.

That’s the one that makes someone believe healing is possible.

And that’s the one hell hopes you never tell.

So tell it.

Live it.

Share it anyway.