When Someone With Nothing Takes Everything

A friend shared a video with me today. It wasn’t anything fancy. Just a woman talking. Reflecting. Sharing her thoughts.

The video was a few minutes long, but by the time it ended, only one sentence stayed with me.

“A person who has nothing will help you lose everything, including yourself.”

I don’t remember everything else she said. I don’t need to. That sentence settled somewhere deep inside me, and I know it’s one I won’t forget. Not because it sounded clever, but because it named something I’ve lived through before and am walking through again now.

At first, it sounds extreme. But the longer I sit with it, the more I realize it isn’t harsh. It’s honest.

This isn’t about money. It isn’t about possessions. It’s about what someone carries inside of them.

Some people come into your life empty. Not just lacking things, but lacking stability, identity, peace. And instead of building themselves, they attach to you. Slowly, quietly, they begin taking pieces. Your energy. Your confidence. Your sense of self. Not all at once. Piece by piece, until one day you look in the mirror and barely recognize who you are.

After sitting with the truth of that quote, I realized reclaiming myself isn’t about rushing. It’s about noticing the parts of me that have been hidden, neglected, or silenced. It’s about remembering who I was before I started carrying weight that was never mine to carry.

Healing doesn’t announce itself. It starts quietly.

Sometimes it’s noticing how tense my body feels and letting it rest. Sometimes it’s saying something I’ve been afraid to say. Sometimes it’s reaching for a passion I let go of because it didn’t feel practical, or safe, or allowed.

Scripture says, “He restores my soul” (Psalm 23:3). Restoration isn’t always dramatic. Most of the time, it’s gentle. It’s the steady decision to choose yourself again. One thought. One prayer. One boundary at a time.

I think about it like a house that’s been lived in by chaos. The floors are worn. The walls need work. The garden has been overtaken. At first, it feels overwhelming. But each small repair matters. Every cleared space brings the home closer to what it was meant to be. That’s what reclaiming yourself feels like. Slow. Intentional. Real.

Or like a fire that’s been smothered for too long. You wonder if it’s gone out completely. But the spark is still there. You add kindling. You breathe gently. Slowly, the warmth returns. That’s how rebuilding works too. Carefully. Patiently. With faith that something good is still alive inside you.

Rebuilding myself doesn’t mean pretending the past didn’t hurt. It means acknowledging it without letting it define me. It means learning, setting boundaries, and remembering that peace isn’t something you earn. It’s something you’re allowed to protect.

The woman I am becoming is not defined by what she survived. She is defined by the courage it takes to show up for herself. By the faith that God is present even in the moments of doubt. By the decision to stand in her own light, even when others would try to dim it.

Reclaiming yourself is not selfish. It’s necessary.

Take a moment and sit with this.

What parts of yourself have you neglected or hidden?

Where do you need stronger boundaries to protect your peace?

What small step can you take today to begin restoring your soul?

“Be on your guard. Stand firm in the faith. Be courageous. Be strong.” (1 Corinthians 16:13)

You are not rebuilding alone.

Slowly, piece by piece,

Just Catrina