For a moment, I truly thought I had overcome it. I thought the battle was behind me. I had removed social media, strengthened my prayer life, surrounded myself with scripture, and tasted what victory felt like. That taste was sweet, and it made me confident—maybe too confident. I began to believe I was strong enough now, disciplined enough now, spiritual enough now.
And that was where I made my mistake.
I didn't realize that confidence without dependence on God is dangerous. I began to rely on my progress instead of His power. I thought awareness and discipline alone would carry me through. I thought the hardest days were over. I thought I had mastered something that, in reality, could only be overcome daily by grace.
Then I collapsed.
It didn't happen suddenly. It started quietly, the way temptation always does. A thought here. A memory there. A moment of tiredness. A moment of loneliness. I brushed it off at first. I told myself I was fine. But temptation doesn't leave just because you ignore it—it waits.
That day, I heard advice from a pastor. He said that when the urge comes, we should turn to worship—play worship songs, lift your heart to God, redirect your mind. I believed it. I wanted to believe it would work for me too.
So when the urge came, I tried. I played worship music. I lay there listening, hoping the sound of praise would drown out the noise in my mind. But that day… it didn't help. Not because worship is weak—but because my heart was conflicted. My body wanted one thing. My spirit wanted another. And instead of choosing the spirit fully, I hesitated.
That hesitation cost me.
I stumbled.
And the moment it happened, conviction hit me like a wave. Not slowly. Not gently. It came heavy. Crushing. Immediate. I felt it in my chest, in my thoughts, in the silence that followed. The pleasure I once chased didn't even feel the same anymore. It felt empty, bitter, wrong.
I sat there frozen, overwhelmed by what I had done. My heart began to ache—not just with guilt, but with grief. Grief that I had gone back to something God was helping me leave behind. Grief that I had ignored the strength He was offering me.
I began to cry. Not quiet tears. Real tears. The kind that come from regret. The kind that come from disappointment—not just in myself, but in the realization that I had hurt the relationship I was trying to build with God.
I cried because I knew better.
I cried because I felt dirty—not physically, but spiritually.
I cried because I felt like I had betrayed my own prayers.
I felt uneasy. Restless. Heavy. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't distract myself. The conviction wouldn't leave me alone. Every verse I had read, every prayer I had prayed, every sermon I had listened to replayed in my mind like echoes.
This time was different from before. In the past, I could stumble and move on. I could justify it. I could normalize it. But now, I couldn't. My spirit rejected what my flesh had chosen. And that discomfort—that uneasiness—was proof that something in me had changed.
I realized something painful but important: falling after knowing God feels different than falling without Him. When you truly start walking with Christ, sin stops feeling comfortable. It stops feeling casual. It hurts. And that pain, as unbearable as it feels, is mercy.
I knelt there and prayed—not with fancy words, not with confidence, but broken. I told God everything. I told Him I was tired. I told Him I felt weak. I told Him I was sorry. Not sorry because I got caught. Sorry because I knew I had grieved His Spirit.
That night taught me something I will never forget:
Victory is not proven by how long you stand—but by what you do when you fall.
I learned that worship is powerful, yes—but obedience is stronger. Worship without surrender becomes background noise. God wasn't asking me to just play songs—He was asking me to give Him my heart fully, even when it hurt, even when it meant denying myself completely.
I also learned that conviction is not condemnation. Condemnation pushes you away from God. Conviction pulls you back to Him. And that night, even in my tears, I felt Him close. I felt His disappointment, yes—but I also felt His patience.
I didn't feel like quitting the journey. I felt like restarting it—properly this time. Not with pride. Not with self-confidence. But with humility.
I understood then that overcoming lust is not about saying "I've conquered this." It's about saying, "God, I need You every single day." It's about staying alert, staying dependent, staying honest.
That night broke something in me—but it also built something stronger. It crushed my pride and replaced it with surrender. It taught me that falling doesn't erase progress, but refusing to rise does.
And so, through tears, regret, and deep conviction, I made a new decision. Not to rely on methods alone. Not to rely on worship alone. Not to rely on discipline alone. But to rely fully on God—moment by moment, urge by urge, choice by choice.
That collapse didn't end my journey.
It refined it.
And I got up—not because I was strong—but because He was faithful.