Your Smile is Your Weapon

Ever crossed paths with someone who has a smile pasted on their face 24/7 and thought, “What’s the real deal behind that smile? There’s no way they can be that happy.” I understand why you might wonder. But I quickly learned that your smile is your weapon. Not because you are pretending everything is perfect, but because sometimes a smile is a quiet declaration that what tried to steal your joy did not win. Psalm 34:5 says, “Those who look to Him are radiant with joy.”

I do swim aerobics a few times a week, and strangers would often walk up to me and say, “Your smile inspires me.”

One sweet elderly lady said, “Honey, when I see you jumping up and down in this water, your smile inspires me to keep pushing.”

She had no idea what that smile had survived.

Behind that effervescent smile was a woman who spent years trying to understand her own worth.

For a long time, I lived on autopilot. I could show up. I could laugh. I could encourage somebody else. I could make a room feel lighter.

But when it came to me?

That was different.

I struggled to make decisions. Finding my voice was difficult because I had spent so much of my life learning how to quiet it.

And sometimes, you can become so accustomed to quieting yourself that you don't even realize you've gone missing.

I grew up in a time when many children were taught, “Children are to be seen and not heard."

You learned when to speak.

When not to speak.

What could be said.

What needed to stay inside.

I learned to tuck away my needs any times, swallow how I truly felt.

If I expressed hurt or confusion, sometimes it was dismissed. If I questioned something, I could be accused of starting trouble. And when you hear enough messages like that, you can eventually begin wondering whether having feelings is the problem.

So you get quiet.

Not because you don't have anything to say.

Because you've learned that saying it may cost you something.

You begin carrying things alone. You become skilled at saying, “I'm fine,” even when something inside you is asking to be heard.

And eventually, the silence can follow you into adulthood.

You may find yourself second-guessing your instincts.

Apologizing for your feelings.

Questioning whether your needs are reasonable.

Wondering if speaking up will make somebody leave.

That is a hard way to live.

It took me years to understand that expressing myself was not the same as being disrespectful.

Having feelings did not make me difficult.

Asking questions did not mean I was creating problems.

Needing love, reassurance, understanding, or emotional safety did not make me “too much.”

There is a difference between being loud and having a voice.

There is a difference between causing confusion and telling the truth about what you feel.

There is a difference between disrespect and finally learning how to say, “This doesn't feel right to me.”

Healing taught me that I don't have to abandon myself in order to keep the peace.

And maybe that is part of coming home to yourself.

Not becoming somebody new.

Just becoming willing to hear the woman who has been speaking softly inside you all along.

My mom used to say, “What happens at 105 stays at 105.”

Welp, it doesn't always stay at 105.

Some things follow us and can shape how we see ourselves, communicate, what we tolerate and how we love.

But I want to be careful here because healing is not about putting our parents on trial.

My parents weren't perfect.

Neither am I.

But my parents got a lot of things right, too. And as I've grown older, God has given me an agape love that allows me to see my parents with greater compassion. They were people, too. They had their own stories, their own limitations, their own battles, and their own things they had to learn.

There is something freeing about being able to tell the truth about what hurt you without turning the people who hurt you into villains.

We can honor where we came from and still choose something healthier for where we're going.

We can love our parents and still heal.

We can understand them and still understand ourselves.

And perhaps most importantly, we can stop carrying forward what was never meant to become our inheritance.

For years, people saw the smile before they saw the woman behind it.

To the world, I was the joy-spreader, throwing joy around like confetti.

But God knew what was underneath it.

He knew the places where I was still searching for myself.

He knew the parts of me that were still learning their value.

He knew the voice that had been buried underneath years of conditioning.

And He didn't shame me for any of it.

Psalm 147:3 reminds us that God heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.

That is the God I have come to know.

The God who can take what was painful and somehow make room for purpose.

The God who can take the place where you were once silenced and give you something to say.

The God who can take a woman who once struggled to see her own worth and teach her that she was precious all along.

So when you see me smile, please don't assume I've arrived.

I haven't.

And truthfully, I don't want to arrive at some imaginary place where I no longer need God.

I need Jesus every single day.

When you see me smile, know that it is intentional.

It is a reminder that what happened to me is not the whole story.

And it is my way of passing the baton of hope.

Because if God can heal, transform, and change me, He does not play the favoritism game - He can do the same for you.

The enemy thought he could keep me silent.

He thought the things I experienced would become the boundaries of my life.

He thought I would forever question my worth, my voice, my value.

But look at God.

The very voice that was once difficult for me to find is now being used to encourage somebody else.

The very experiences I once struggled to understand have become part of the reason I can recognize somebody else's pain.

The places where I once felt invisible have taught me how powerful it is to make somebody else feel seen.

That is redemption.

Not pretending it didn't happen.

Not pretending it didn't hurt.

But refusing to let it have the final word.

So, Smile.

It doesn't mean you've figured everything out.

Sometimes your smile simply means, I'm still here.

Sometimes it says, God has been good to me.

Sometimes it says, I believe there is still something beautiful ahead.

And sometimes, your smile may be the very thing somebody else needs to keep going.

A smile can say, I see you.

You matter.

You are valuable.

There is still hope.

You never know what someone has endured behind their smile.

So today, give somebody yours.

Not the forced kind.

Not the “everything is perfect” kind.

Just a genuine smile.

A little reminder that there is still goodness in this world.

Because you never know when that simple smile might become somebody else's baton of hope.

Keep letting God remind you who you are.

Your smile is your weapon.

Not because it hides your story.

But because it tells your story that God gets the final say.