There was a point in my life when the guilt stopped knocking loudly. It didn't disappear completely, but it softened, like a warning alarm that had been ignored too many times. I still knew there was a God. I believed He existed. But believing in God and knowing God are two very different things. I believed in Him the way someone believes the sky exists—present, distant, untouchable. I didn't walk with Him. I didn't confide in Him. I only remembered Him when I wanted something.
Life felt normal on the surface. I laughed. I went about my day. I prayed when I wanted results, and sometimes I got them. When I did, I felt validated. When I didn't, I brushed it off. I even questioned God at times, asking myself if He truly listened, without realizing how foolish that question was. The fact that I was alive, breathing, protected—even in my disobedience—was proof enough of His presence. Some things I didn't get were not punishments; they were protection. I just didn't know it then.
Lust was never something I prayed about. I never saw it as a problem. I told myself it was normal, that it was just part of growing up. And because I didn't confront it, it grew quietly. What you don't fight, you feed. What you normalize, you empower. And lust ate me slowly, silently, without asking for permission.
Then came the night everything almost collapsed.
It was late—around 1 a.m. The house was quiet in that deep, heavy way that only happens when everyone is asleep. The urge came suddenly, strong and familiar. My phone was low on battery, and instead of stopping, instead of seeing that moment as an opportunity to walk away, I made another choice. I took my mom's phone.
In that moment, I wasn't thinking about consequences. I wasn't thinking about trust. I wasn't thinking about God. I was only thinking about satisfying the urge. But before I could even settle into that secrecy, I heard footsteps. My heart jumped into my throat. Panic rushed through me like cold water.
She was coming.
I didn't have time to clear anything. I didn't have time to think. I quickly stood up and handed her the phone like nothing had happened. My hands were shaking, but I tried to look calm. She took the phone and walked back into her room.
That moment felt like hours. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would expose me on its own. I lay there, staring into darkness, replaying everything in my head, hoping—begging—that she wouldn't check.
But she did.
Not long after, she came out. Her face was different. Serious. Heavy. I knew immediately that she had seen something. Fear wrapped itself tightly around me. I denied everything instantly. I said I had nothing to do with it. I said it wasn't mine. I even pointed to the content itself and claimed it wasn't something I would ever watch.
But denial doesn't erase truth.
The following morning was worse. Much worse. She didn't just advise me—she shouted. Her voice was full of disappointment, confusion, and anger. She asked questions I didn't know how to answer honestly. Then she said something that froze me completely: she said she would show my dad.
My heart sank.
My sister was shocked. The maid was shocked. Even my little sister could sense something was wrong. The atmosphere in the house changed instantly. Fear sat beside me like a shadow. Shame wrapped around me like a tight cloth.
In a moment of desperation, I went to her phone and deleted the history. I thought I was fixing the problem. I thought I was cleaning the evidence. But instead, I confirmed her suspicions. When she found out, she knew—without a doubt—that I was involved.
That was the moment everything felt exposed.
I panicked and did what I thought was smart at the time. I called my dad. There's a saying that the first story people hear is often the one they believe, and I clung to that idea desperately. I told him my version. Honestly, I can't even remember exactly what he said in response. My mind was too overwhelmed, too flooded with fear to process his words.
But then something strange happened.
Nothing.
My mom didn't follow through. My dad didn't confront me again. The house slowly returned to normal. Everyone acted like nothing had happened. And that confused me more than punishment ever could have. I didn't understand it. I didn't know whether it was mercy, exhaustion, or something else entirely. I just knew I had escaped consequences I probably deserved.
Instead of letting that moment change me, I used it as proof that I could get away with it.
Not long after that incident, I got my own phone. I made a promise to myself: I won't watch anything like that on my own phone. That way, I won't be addicted. It sounded logical in my head. It sounded disciplined. But it was a lie. Addiction doesn't need logic—it needs opportunity. And the devil is always active, always patient, always waiting for moments of weakness.
Soon, I found myself repeating the cycle. Watching. Deleting history. Acting normal. And thinking everything was fine.
But everything was not fine.
The secrecy deepened. The habit strengthened. The conviction weakened. I became skilled at hiding—not just from people, but from my own conscience.
At some point, I went to ChatGPT and asked how to stop. I knew, deep down, that I was addicted. But instead of running to God, instead of talking to a pastor, instead of opening up to someone spiritually grounded, I ran to an app.
And this is where I want to speak directly to you reading this.
Some people run to ChatGPT as their only counselor. But you have God. You have pastors. You have the church. Tools can help, yes—but they cannot replace spiritual authority, accountability, and divine power. Information is not transformation. Advice is not deliverance. You need God for that.
I didn't understand it then. I thought answers were enough. I didn't realize that freedom doesn't come from knowing how to stop—it comes from surrendering why you can't.
Looking back now, that night at 1 a.m. was a warning. Not just about exposure, but about how far I had drifted. How easily I could lie. How quickly I could deny. How comfortably I could live in contradiction.
And yet, even in that mess, God was still protecting me. Still covering me. Still waiting for me to truly come to Him—not for favors, not for convenience, but for healing.
I just didn't know it yet.