This is not a story of instant freedom or permanent arrival. It is the record of a slow undoing—of discovering that knowing the truth is not the same as being changed by it. What follows is not a cleaned-up testimony, but an honest account of how surrender moved from theory to lived experience in my life. If there is hope here, it is not in my resolve, but in the grace that met me when mine finally ran out.
I used to ask, How do I let go?
But the truth is, I always knew the answer.
To abandon myself to God means giving up all right and interest in my past, present, and future. Not symbolically—literally. I no longer own my story. I have been bought with a price. I am His. A living sacrifice.
“Thy will be done” sounds simple until you realize what it costs.
Because what I was really asking was this: Am I willing to die?
Not physically—but to have God surgically remove lust from me. Not just the behavior, but the thing I ran to when I was afraid, lonely, bored, ashamed, or empty.
“I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.”
—Galatians 2:20
I understood surrender clearly.
What I didn’t know was whether I could survive without the thing that had been medicating me my whole life.
In trying to escape addiction, I thought knowledge would do it for me. Theology. Insight. Self-awareness. I believed that if I could understand myself well enough, I could manage myself well enough.
Instead, I experienced a prolonged beatdown.
This disease beat the heck out of me.
Do you know why we relapse? Because we’re sexaholics. Lust is wanting more—or something different—than what is being offered in the moment. And no amount of information changes that hunger.
Only a spiritual experience will keep me sober.
“For the kingdom of God does not consist in talk but in power.”
—1 Corinthians 4:20
I didn’t want that to be true.
But it was.
I had to remember that I am powerless.
Not helpless.
Not choiceless.
But powerless over the thing that kept returning me to myself.
The source and center of all my problems is selfishness. Even my desire for recovery was selfish. I didn’t want transformation—I wanted relief. I just wanted to feel better.
Selfishness isn’t something I occasionally visit.
It’s the water I’m swimming in.
Every morning, when I wake up, the switch is flipped back to me.
“For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh.”
—Romans 7:18
That’s why I have to pray for willingness. That’s why I pray, God, give me the courage and willingness to do whatever You need to do so that You can keep me sober today.
Only God can remove my self-will.
For most of my life, lust was the medication that fixed everything.
Fear? Lust.
Shame? Lust.
Anger? Lust.
Loneliness? Lust.
So the real question isn’t just How do I stop?
It’s What pain is this lust trying to fix right now?
I used to believe that every bad thing that happened to me was because I masturbated. I believed my addiction was the root of all my other problems.
It isn’t.
My problem is my sinful heart—and my desperate attempt to survive it without God.
“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?”
—Jeremiah 17:9
I didn’t realize I had a loving Higher Power.
God doesn’t create junk.
God didn’t bring me this far just to bring me this far.
I kept going back to God with shame. I believed shame was repentance. I believed suffering proved sincerity.
I never wanted my wife to find out—not because I feared she would leave, but because I believed I deserved for her to. I prayed she would never find out so she could be spared the pain. I knew how deeply it affected her, and I hated that I caused it.
Every relapse felt like betrayal—of God, of her, of myself. I had promised I would never do it again. And every time I did, something inside me hated me for it.
“Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation without regret, but worldly sorrow brings death.”
—2 Corinthians 7:10
Shame kept me coming back.
But it never made me well.
Growing up, I lived in fear. My father had rage. He beat my brother and me. He lashed out at my mother. My body learned vigilance long before it learned trust.
I promised myself I would never be like him. Every relapse felt like proof that I was failing that promise too.
Why didn’t my parents ever say anything about the stains on my mattress?
Why couldn’t I be more like my brother?
Because I wasn’t created to be like my brother.
I was created to be like me.
“You knit me together in my mother’s womb… I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”
—Psalm 139:13–14
But I didn’t know how to be me without performing, provoking, or medicating.
In 2018, I came to recovery too full of knowledge and too full of myself to succeed. I thought it was safe to drive with my addiction. I never saw the warning label: Don’t operate heavy equipment.
I walked around thinking I knew what I was doing. In reality, my brain was mush.
I feel like my kids, my wife, and my friends all knew it—but I didn’t.
“When I wanted to do good, evil lay close at hand.”
—Romans 7:21
My addiction made me the person I used to be.
My recovery has made me the person I am today.
I used to ask, Why me? Why do I have this problem?
Now I ask, Why me? Why am I finding recovery?
That shift didn’t come from insight.
It came from being broken enough to stop negotiating.
My default nature is to be a child of God. I forget that daily. Every morning I must act as if I’m not selfish.
I am powerless—but I am not abandoned.
“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”
—2 Corinthians 12:9
I am still learning what surrender looks like one day at a time. I still wake up self-centered. I still need help I cannot provide for myself.
This is not the story of my willpower.
It is the story of a God who met me where my will finally ran out.
If there is any hope here, it is not that I figured it out—but that I stopped pretending I could.
And that, so far, has been enough.