I Don’t Write Books—

I Survive Them

I wish I could say I write books from a place of strength.

I don’t.

I write them from the edge. From the floor. From the tight, airless space between panic and prayer—where one feels real and the other, frustratingly, doesn’t.

Every book I write starts the same way:

I’m desperate.

I’m weighed down, worn out, wrung dry. I can’t find answers in the places I’m told they should be. Not in pep talks. Not in self-help. Not even in Sunday morning sermons or the whispered “just pray about it” encouragements.

I’ve tried.

But I’ve discovered that desperation is a holy thing when it drives you to the right place. And for me, it drives me straight into Scripture. Not just to read it but to mine it. I dig with trembling hands and tired eyes. I search for something that actually holds. I wrestle with verses like they’re the last rope dangling off the cliff I’m clawing up. Because sometimes they are.

And as I search, a concept begins to form. A flicker of understanding. A word. A title. And then, the floodgates open. I start organizing what I’m learning—not like a theologian, but like a starving woman preparing a meal. These aren’t academic insights. They’re soul survival.

I group what I find into chapters—categories, really—of what I needed to know, what I couldn’t figure out, what I now see clearer than before.

I sit.

I listen.

I write.

And in that slow unfolding, a book is born. But to me, it’s more than a book. It’s a breadcrumb trail out of the dark. It’s a map I drew while crawling through the wilderness. It’s Bible study, yes—but it’s also how I stay sane. How I stay faithful.

Writing isn’t something I do when I feel strong. It’s what I do when I feel like I might not make it. And then, by grace, I do. And if you’re reading what I’ve written, it means I came out on the other side. Not always clean or confident. But holding something real. Something true enough to carry you too, if you’re in the thick of it now. These posts and these books are not sermons. They’re scars. Healed wounds that still remember the pain.

But more than that, they’re proof that God still speaks. And when I write, I’m just trying to echo what He’s said. And maybe you’re not just meant to read. Maybe you’re meant to echo Him too.

Not for an audience. Not for publication. But for your own survival.

Ask yourself this: “If I were writing a Bible study, what would I want to explore? What would I want to find?”

You might be saying, “But I can’t write!” I’m not saying you have to be a writer, just ask yourself that question. Start with the ache, with the question, with the verse that won’t let you go.

We don’t always have to go looking for some else’s Bible study journey, but we can build our own. Even if no one ever reads it, you will. And that will be enough.

Because sometimes, the most life-changing Bible study is the one you didn’t think you were qualified to write.

If the Bible study you need doesn’t exist, make your own—grasping in the dark, where every verse is a rope, not a rule, and every lesson a lifeline.