WHERE DOES IT HURT?

Where Does It Hurt?

Every physician begins with the same question: Where does it hurt? Before healing can begin, the pain must first be acknowledged. In this episode, we explore why so many of us become experts at saying, “I’m fine,” while quietly carrying wounds no one else can see. This isn’t about having all the answers—it’s about finding the courage to tell the truth. Because healing often begins where honesty begins.

#TheTensionWhereTruthLives #WhereDoesItHurt #Healing #MentalHealth #EmotionalHealth #Hope #PersonalGrowth #FaithAndLife #Podcast #PastorCharlesHowse #Truth #ConversationsThatMatter

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Hello my friend, I'm Charles Howes. I am truly so glad you decided to spend a few minutes with me today. It really means a lot to have you here. Before we really get into things, would you do me a small favor? If this conversation ends up meaning something to you, would you mind sharing it with someone else? I'm not saying that because I'm trying to build an audience or anything like that. It's just that somebody you know might be carrying a question they've never found the words to ask. So go ahead and pull up a chair. Let's have a real conversation. Lately I've been thinking about something. Actually, I've been thinking about it for a long, long time. The older I get, the more I realize that information has never been easier to find. I mean, think about it. You need an opinion? There are millions of them available instantly. Need some advice? Someone's already made a video about it. We've surrounded ourselves with a constant stream of information. It's everywhere, like the air we breathe, right? And yet, despite all this data, I've never seen so many people quietly carrying so much pain. It makes me wonder if maybe information isn't what we're actually missing. Maybe what we're really missing are places where people feel safe enough to just tell the truth. I didn't always think this way, you know? It took time. When I was a young Bible college student, I did my practicum at a youth psychiatric hospital. At the time, I thought I was there to learn how to help people. I had no idea God was quietly teaching me a lesson that wouldn't fully make sense until more than 40 years later. Part of my assignment allowed me to sit in recovery meetings. Alcoholics Anonymous, narcotics anonymous, people from every imaginable background were there. Some had been sober for a week, while others had been sober for 30 or even 40 years. And honestly, something about it confused me back then. I'd look at the people with 40 years of sobriety and wonder, why are you still here? Haven't you finished? But then something else caught my attention. Every now and then someone would walk into the room, look around, and say, I messed up. I drank again. I used again. I waited for the reaction, you know, but nobody gasped, nobody looked disappointed or said, I guess you weren't serious about this. There was no judgment in that room. Instead, someone simply handed them a box of tissues. Somebody else put a gentle hand on their shoulder, and together, right then and there, they just started again. As a 20-year-old young preacher, I couldn't fully explain what I was seeing. I just knew it felt different from the rest of the world. It felt like something real. Years later, I finally understand why those meetings worked. It wasn't because everybody agreed on everything or because they all had the same background, not at all. Nobody cared if you were rich or poor, or whether you voted Republican or Democrat. Nobody cared about your education, your race, or your title. Those things didn't matter. There was only one thing everybody in that room had in common. I'm hurting, and I don't want to hurt alone anymore. That was the bridge that connected them. I think about those meetings often now, not because I think recovery has all the answers, but because I learned something there I wish every community could learn. People kept coming back because failure didn't cost them their seat. Isn't that powerful? Imagine if we all had a place where we could fail and still belong. Yesterday, I had a conversation with someone I love and respect very much. Before they ever listened to what I was trying to say, they started telling me stories. They told stories about a time when neighbors took care of one another and churches worked together. If a family needed food, somebody cooked. If a child needed shoes, somebody found them. As they talked, I kept thinking, we're saying the same thing. We're both looking for that connection. But the problem is we just can't hear each other yet. Then something hit me. Sometimes, before we can hear another person's pain, we instinctively defend what we love. And honestly, I understand that. It's a human reflex. If someone started talking about people I love, I'd probably defend them too. Love has a way of putting armor on us before we even realize we're wearing it. That made me stop and think. Maybe that's what so many of us are doing right now. We're not actually defending ideas, we're defending our precious memories. We're defending our families, our marriages, and our generation. We're defending our children and the life we spent years trying to build. We're protecting what's dear to us. Maybe that's why so many of our conversations never get anywhere. We're busy answering questions before we've really heard the hurt that is hiding underneath them. Think about when you go to a doctor. The conversation usually begins the same way every single time. The doctor looks at you and asks, where does it hurt? Then they ask, How long has it been hurting? And do you know what happened? The doctor isn't asking because he doesn't understand medicine. He's a professional, right? He's asking because healing always begins with honesty. He puts that cold metal stethoscope on your chest and says, breathe. He isn't there to judge your breathing. He's just trying to hear what's happening underneath. Lately, I've been learning that the first step toward healing is simply telling the truth about where it hurts. Think about that for a moment. It's not about finding another opinion or pretending everything is okay. It's not about posting another smiling picture on social media. It's not about convincing everybody else you're doing fine. Healing begins when we're finally honest enough to say, this is where it hurts. This is the spot. Maybe that's why so many of us stay stuck in the same cycles. We become experts at hiding our symptoms. We've learned how to say I'm fine even when we're not. We smile, we work, we serve, and we keep moving. Meanwhile, something deep inside us has been hurting for years, and we've just learned to live with the ache. This is why this conversation matters so much to me. This isn't about one family, one generation, or one political party. It's about all of us everywhere. Everywhere I look, I see people carrying invisible wounds. I see parents trying to raise children while they are still trying to heal from their own childhoods. I see teachers writing lesson plans at midnight wondering if anybody notices they're exhausted. I see nurses caring for patients while quietly carrying their own grief. I see business leaders trying to hold companies together while their own lives are coming apart. I see pastors trying to strengthen others while asking God questions in private. I see grandmothers keeping the family prayerless while quietly grieving a son who won't come home. We've all become so busy surviving that we've forgotten how to be honest. Maybe that's you today. You're smiling, you're serving, and you're showing up, but you're bleeding in a place where nobody can see. You're tired of the act. I don't have all the answers. Honestly, I don't think anybody does, but I am beginning to believe that the greatest conversations don't actually begin with advice. They begin with one simple, humble question. Where does it hurt today? Not so someone can judge you or fix you, but just so you can be heard. Not so someone can tell you everything you've done wrong, just tell me where it hurts. Because I have a feeling that's exactly where the healing finally begins. Thank you for pulling up a chair with me today. If this conversation stayed with you, would you pass it along? Someone might need to hear that question. They may need someone to ask them something nobody has asked in a very long time. Where does it hurt today? Until next time, please take care of yourself, take care of each other. And remember, the first step toward healing is telling the truth about where it hurts. It's the most courageous thing you can do. So tonight, before you turn out the light, put your hand on your chest, right where it hurts, and just whisper it, even if it's only to God. That's not weakness, my friend. That's worship. That's you finally telling the truth. And that truth is exactly where your new story begins. God bless you.