The gift of desperation is a remarkable thing. It’s the nudge that finally plummets to its death a life that isn’t going to work anymore. It’s the impetus to a metamorphosis. It’s a rebirth.

The gift of desperation comes slowly. It’s a dreadful pain that agonizingly wells up inside while the outside world crumbles. Nobody wants the gift of desperation. It arrives on its own wrapped in anguish and a broken spirit.

But what’s unveiled is a life regained. Tearing away its wrapping is tearing apart the parasite that has been plaguing your mind and soul. But like losing any part of you, it’s painful. It’s killing an undeniable comfort you love despite its destructive havoc.

Real change is never easy and rarely ever truly wanted. The burden must become too much. What you once found solace in must become the very thing that terrorizes you. A fragile finality of hope must be crushed as a trembling grip is forced to release what it can no longer hold.

But real hope is found among the shattered fragments. The life you once clung to is broken at your feet and there’s nothing left to do but start picking up the jagged remains. But as you do, however slowly and painfully, the sharp edges soften and the pieces begin to fit. Brokenness becomes the binding force that holds together the remnants of your life.

The gift of desperation is a stark contradiction forged in denial and strengthened by fear. It’s the last thing anyone wants, but through a sadistic relentlessness becomes the only thing that can save you. It’s hopelessness that becomes your last hope.

The gift of desperation means that a life has fallen to pieces. But it also means that it can be put back together. And somehow the broken remains will fit better than ever before because that’s how they were supposed to fit all along.