I hated the world. I hated nearly everyone in it. Life had been nothing but disappointment, betrayal, and suffering. I saw no light, no meaning, no reason to believe in anything good. Hope was a word for other people, for fools who hadn’t yet been crushed by reality. I was beyond saving—too broken, too bitter, too far gone.

 

But God didn’t let me go.

 

Even as I cursed life itself, even as I burned bridges and built walls, even as I sank deeper into the darkness, He was there. Unseen, uninvited, unwelcome—yet relentless. I had no strength left, no fight in me, and somehow, in that emptiness, He started me down this road.

 

At first, it wasn’t a choice. It was survival. I was drowning, and some small part of me, the part I thought was long dead, reached for something—anything—that could keep me from going under. That’s when the truth hit me, cold and undeniable: I was powerless. Completely, utterly helpless against the wreckage of my own life.

 

I could not fix myself. I had tried—tried to numb the pain, to outrun the memories, to convince myself I didn’t care. But the truth was, my life was unmanageable. I was lost, not in some poetic way, but in a way that suffocated me.

 

So I admitted it. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no other choice. If there was any hope, it had to come from outside of me, from a power greater than myself. And in that moment of surrender, a flicker of something I hadn’t known in years broke through: God was there.

 

I didn’t know Him yet. I didn’t understand Him. But I made a decision—I had to. I turned my will, my life, everything I had destroyed, over to His care. And for the first time, I felt the weight shift. Not disappear, not yet—but shift.

 

Then the hard part began. I had to look inside. I had spent so long blaming the world, seeing only what others had done to me, that I had ignored what I had become. But there was no hiding now. I searched myself, ripped open the wounds, and faced the truth: I was filled with resentment, anger, selfishness, pride. I had hurt people. I had let bitterness consume me. I had become the very thing I hated.

 

I couldn’t just know it—I had to own it. I spoke it out loud, confessed it—not just to myself, but to God and to another human being. It was like dragging a corpse into the light, every sin, every failure, every moment of cruelty or indifference. And in that confession, I saw something I never expected: mercy.

 

But it wasn’t enough to just see my brokenness. I had to let God take it. All of it. I had to be ready, entirely ready, to let Him strip away every defect, every flaw, every piece of the old self I had clung to. I had spent so long in the darkness that I wasn’t sure who I would be without it. But I asked. I begged. God, take it.

 

And then, He asked something of me—something I didn’t want to give. Forgiveness.

 

Not just for myself. Not just for the things I had done. But for those who had hurt me, betrayed me, abandoned me. The ones who shattered my trust, who made me hate.

 

I wanted to hold on to that anger. It had been my armor, my fuel, my reason. But God was clear: If I wanted freedom, I had to let it go.

 

So I did. Not all at once, not perfectly, but one name at a time, one wound at a time. I forgave. And as I did, I felt the chains loosen.

 

Then, where I could, I made amends. Not to make myself feel better, but to take responsibility for the damage I had done. I went back to those I had wronged, not with excuses, not with justifications, but with honesty. Some accepted it, some didn’t—but that wasn’t the point. The point was that I was no longer running.

 

Somewhere along the way, I got the best advice I’ve ever heard:

 

“Just do the next right thing.”

 

Not fix everything all at once. Not figure out the whole path ahead. Just the next right thing.

 

At first, I clung to those words like a lifeline. I didn’t know how to live differently yet, didn’t know how to undo the years of damage, didn’t know how to be anything other than who I had been. But I could do the next right thing.

 

And then the next.

 

And then the next.

 

Day by day, I kept searching myself. When I failed, I admitted it. When I sinned, I didn’t hide. I prayed—not to get things from God, but to know Him, to understand His will, not mine.

 

And then, somewhere along the way, everything changed.

 

Not overnight, not in some dramatic revelation, but in the quiet, steady way that light replaces darkness. God gave me a spiritual awakening. I saw what I could never see before—grace.

 

I knew freedom. Real freedom. The kind that doesn’t come from getting what I want, but from no longer being a slave to the things that used to control me.

 

I stopped regretting my past. I didn’t shut the door on it, but I didn’t live in it anymore. I understood serenity—not as a pretty idea, but as a real, living peace inside me.

 

I no longer felt useless. The things that had crushed me, that had made me want to disappear, were now the very things that God used to help others. The pain had a purpose. The darkness had been turned to light.

 

Fear? It lost its grip. Self-pity? Gone. The things that used to consume me no longer did.

 

And then, the most incredible thing of all happened: I realized that God had been doing for me what I could never do for myself.

 

These are not wishful thoughts. They are not vague ideas of self-improvement. They are real. They are the undeniable work of God in my life. I have seen them happen, and they continue to happen for those who are willing.

 

And when I was finally ready, when I had nothing left but my need, I met God. Not as an idea. Not as a distant force. But as a person—Jesus Christ, my Savior.

 

He had been calling me all along. Through every moment of pain, through every failure, through every night I thought I wouldn’t make it—He was there.

 

And now, I walk in His light. Not perfectly. Not without struggle. But free.

 

And when I don’t know what to do? When the weight of life feels heavy again?

 

I remember those words: “Just do the next right thing.”

 

My name is Trevor Ozier. This is my story. This is my redemption. This is my life in Him.

 

And the life I now live?

 

“I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” (Galatians 2:20, ESV)