A Conversation With a Tear
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I sacrificed as a child—
giving up toys, dreams, laughter
because “good kids don’t ask for more.”
I sacrificed as a teen—
biting my tongue, shrinking my voice,
because “fitting in” felt safer than being me.
I sacrificed as an adult—
time, sleep, even the pieces of myself
I wasn’t sure I could afford to lose.
And they called it virtue.
They called it strength.
They called it love.
But tell me, Lord—
how much is too much?
Where is the “end” of this road
called sacrifice?
Because sometimes it feels less like holiness
and more like slow death.
Sometimes it feels like everyone eats
from a plate carved out of me.
And I am left
hungry, hollow, half-alive.
Is that what You wanted?
Is that what You meant
when You said, “Take up your Cross”?
Or is sacrifice not about erasing myself,
but about emptying myself into You?
Not about bleeding for applause,
but about loving until love itself
becomes the only reward.
So teach me, Lord,
where sacrifice ends and self-destruction begins.
Teach me the difference between being used
and being chosen.
Between losing my life in You
and just losing myself.
Because I am tired of calling every wound holy.
I am tired of baptizing exhaustion as love.
If sacrifice is the road to You,
then let it be love that burns me,
not emptiness that breaks me.
Sacrifice is not about how much I lose.
It’s about who I become.
And if I don’t become more like You,
then maybe it was never sacrifice—
just surrender to the wrong altar.
A poet, author, and faith writer who believes words can heal what silence hides. My poetry collections — Inked Emotions, Scattered Feelings Stitched in Ink, and Love Beyond Loss — were born out of seasons of grief, solitude, and deep reflection.
Here on Catholic365, I’ve been humbled to share reflections that have reached hundreds of readers. I write not from a place of perfection, but from a longing to make sense of love, loss, and the quiet ways God speaks into our lives.
Whether it’s a poem, a story, or a small reflection, my hope is that you feel seen, encouraged, and gently reminded that faith isn’t always loud — sometimes it’s found in the waiting, the falling, the starting again.
You can find more of my work at https://about.me/anniedcosta
