The Place My Soul Runs To

There are some days when the only thing I know how to do is run. Not physically—but in my soul. I run with my fears. My failures. My burdens. My shame. I run with anger I don’t want to admit I have. With grief I can’t seem to shake. With sins I swore I’d never repeat. I run because I’m tired of trying to hold it all together. I run because deep down, I believe there’s a place where I’ll be seen and still loved—held without having to explain every scar. Somewhere where someone will actually see you and still choose to stay.

That place is Jesus.

I used to think I had to clean myself up before coming to Him. Like a child wiping muddy hands on their pants before reaching out to their parent, afraid they’ll get scolded for the mess. But that’s not how Jesus works. He’s never flinched from my mess. He doesn’t wince at the weight I carry, the shame I try to hide, the doubts I’m too scared to say out loud.

He just opens His arms and says, Come.

Come with your burdens.

Come with your confusion.

Come with your exhaustion, your tears, your silent fears.

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I’ve run to Him with heartbreak so raw it hurt to breathe. With questions I couldn’t voice without trembling. With anxiety that kept me up at night. With anger I didn’t want to admit I felt. With guilt I thought disqualified me from grace. And every time—every single time—He met me there. Not with a lecture. Not with a checklist. Not with “You should’ve known better.” But with love. With arms that wrapped around my mess and whispered, “I know. I’ve been waiting. Let Me carry this with you.”

Because He doesn’t just invite the parts of me that smile on Sunday. He invites the aching, restless, shame-filled parts too. He doesn’t just walk beside me when I’m strong. He runs to meet me when I’m barely holding on. I’ve learned something beautiful: Jesus is not afraid of the dark. Not mine. Not yours. He steps into it and calls us by name.

When I run to Him, it’s not a sign of weakness-it’s the bravest thing I can do. To say, “I can’t carry this. But I trust that You can.” To say, “I’ve tried to fix it. But I need a Healer, not a bandaid.” To say, “I’m tired. But I know You offer rest.”

So I keep running.

With my insecurities.

With my sin.

With my doubt.

With my weary heart.

And do you know what I find every time I get there? Not distance. Not silence. But a Savior—arms open wide, and eyes full of compassion. Scars that tell me, You were worth dying for.

So if you’re feeling like you can’t come to Him until you’re better— Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Run now. Run messy. Run broken. Run in tears. Run in anger. Run in silence if you have to.

Just run.

Because Jesus doesn’t meet us at the finish line.

He meets us on the road—with grace in His hands and love in His voice. He’s not waiting for the cleaned-up version of you. He wants you now, the version of you that may be at your lowest- your breaking point. And that is the safest place we’ll ever be. At His feet. In His arms. Fully seen. Deeply loved. Forever held.

So today, I’m running to Jesus again. Not because I have it all together, but because I know He does. And the beautiful thing is… this invitation to run to Jesus?

It was His idea first.

In Matthew 11:28, He doesn’t say, “Come to Me once you’ve cleaned up your life.”

He says,

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

That word—rest—it isn’t just a nap. It’s not a break from responsibilities. It’s a soul-deep exhale. It’s peace that reaches the places no one else sees. It’s the warmth of love that holds you in the middle of your anxiety, your burnout, your failure. And did you notice? He invites all. Not the qualified. Not the ones who are already healed. Not the ones who always get it right.

All.

That means you. That means me.

And He doesn’t just invite us to drop off our burdens and keep walking—He says He’ll give us rest. Not temporary relief. Real rest. Eternal rest. Heart-rest.

And maybe you’re thinking…

“But I’ve already messed up so many times.”

“But I’ve walked too far.”

“But I should’ve known better.”

“But I’ve sinned again. And again. And again.”

Friend, I want you to hear something that changed everything for me: Jesus isn’t surprised by your weakness. In fact, He anticipated it. That’s why Ether 12:27 in the Book of Mormon speaks to my soul:

“And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness.”

He doesn’t say He’ll punish you for your weakness. He says He’ll show it to you. Why?

“That they may be humble.”

And then the promise:

“If they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.”

He’s not interested in exposing you to shame you. He reveals the broken places so He can heal them. He brings your weakness to the surface so He can strengthen you in it. And now… the part that undoes me every time.

Let’s talk about the parable of the prodigal son.

You can find it in Luke 15, and honestly? I see myself in every line.

This boy—this son—took his inheritance and ran. He wasted it. He made a mess. He landed in a pigpen, hungry, humiliated, and too ashamed to even call himself a son anymore. He thought the best he could hope for was to return as a servant. Just someone on the outskirts.

And maybe that’s how you feel. Like you’ve messed up too many times. Like you’re not worthy to be part of His family anymore. Like maybe you could earn your way back, if you’re lucky.

But here’s the part that makes my heart ache with hope:

“But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran…”

He ran.

The father didn’t wait for his son to reach the door.

He didn’t demand an explanation first.

He didn’t cross his arms and say, “Prove you’ve changed.”

He ran. He ran.

And if that’s not the most tender, breathtaking image of Christ’s love, I don’t know what is.

That father wasn’t just waiting by the window.

He was watching.

Scanning the horizon.

Hoping.

Longing.

He was ready to run at the first sign of return.

And I believe with all my heart—that’s Jesus.

You may still be a long way off, still stuck in cycles you hate. Still wrestling with guilt or addiction or pain. Still figuring out how to take that first step. But He already sees you. And He’s already running. The moment your heart even turns slightly in His direction— He runs. Because that’s what love does, it doesn’t hold back. It doesn’t wait for perfection. It moves. It chases. It gathers. It weeps and rejoices and embraces.

And listen, this is the part we can’t miss: The son tried to give a speech. He tried to say, “I’m not worthy.” He had it all rehearsed. But the father interrupted him with a robe, a ring, and a celebration. He didn’t just let him back in. He restored him. He called him son.

That’s the God we run to. A God who doesn’t define us by our darkest moment. A God who doesn’t just forgive—He restores. He wraps us in our true, divine identity again. Covers us with grace. And invites us to the feast—not because we’ve earned it, but because we are His.

So if you’re reading this right now and you’ve felt too far gone—

If your story feels too broken, your soul too tired, your past too heavy—

I need you to hear this:

You still belong.

And more than that…

You are already seen. Already loved. Already being run toward.

So run. Limp if you have to. Crawl if that’s all you can do today. He’s not waiting at the finish line with arms crossed. He’s already on the road, arms wide open, ready to meet you exactly where you are. You don’t have to have the words. You don’t have to have the plan. You just have to come. Because when you do? You’ll find a Savior who already came for you. And His name is Jesus.

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And I just want to share my heart with you now. Because this isn’t just something I believe— It’s something I’ve lived.

I’ve been the one limping down the road with nothing left to offer. I’ve sat in the middle of my own mess, wondering if Jesus could really still want me. And every single time I’ve turned to Him—even in the smallest, quietest ways—He’s met me with mercy. He’s held me through grief. He’s walked with me through healing. And He’s shown me that His grace doesn’t just save us once—it keeps saving us, again and again.

I know what it’s like to feel unworthy.

I know what it’s like to feel too far gone.

But I also know what it’s like to be wrapped in the love of a Savior who never gave up on me. So if you got this far in reading this and something inside you is stirring…If your heart is aching with that longing for home…Please—don’t wait. Don’t wait until you’re better. Don’t wait until you’re strong. Just come. You don’t have to have the right words. You don’t have to know exactly what to do.

You just have to turn your heart—even a little— because the very moment you turned, you’ll find that He was there all along.