To Testify or Not to Testify?

Imagine you're drowning in the open ocean. You're exhausted. Every time you fight to stay above the water, you slip a little lower. Your strength is almost gone.

Then you see it. A boat nearby. Someone throws you a lifejacket.

In an instant, fear loosens its grip. You don't magically end up on shore, but now you can breathe. Now you can stay afloat. Now you have hope.

That's what sharing our story does for families dealing with addiction.

When someone in the family has chosen the path of addiction, everyone feels like they're drowning. The harder you try to help, the more exhausted you become. The more effort you put in, the worse it can feel. Nothing works. Nothing sticks.

Then the family shares their story.

And suddenly, there's air again.

Instead of silently carrying the weight alone, they feel supported. Seen. Understood. Not fixed—but no longer drowning.

Why Testimony Matters for Families

There are three reasons sharing your story changes everything for families walking through the chaos of a loved one's addiction.

Sharing breaks shame.

Shame thrives in the dark. The longer addiction stays hidden, the more power it has. Silence gives shame room to grow. Speaking brings light into places that have been closed off for too long.

Sharing the struggle doesn't excuse it. It exposes it. And exposure weakens shame's grip.

I've watched families carry the weight of their loved one's choices for years without telling anyone. They show up to church smiling. They post happy family photos. They pretend everything is fine while their world is falling apart behind closed doors.

The shame isn't just about what their loved one did. It's the shame of feeling like they failed. The shame of wondering if people will judge them. The shame of not having the perfect family they thought they'd have.

But here's what happens when they finally speak: the shame loses its power. Not because the situation changed, but because it's no longer a secret they're protecting.

Sharing breaks isolation.

Shame almost always leads to isolation. When no one knows what's happening, families feel alone even in crowded rooms. But when a story is shared, something shifts. A connection forms.

The one hearing the story realizes they're not the only ones living this nightmare. And the one telling it realizes they don't have to carry the pain by themselves anymore.

I can't count the number of times I've watched a mother share her story for the first time and another mother in the room starts crying. Not because she's sad—because she finally found someone who understands. Someone who's been there. Someone who gets it.

Stories create connection. Connection loosens the hold of isolation.

Sharing lifts the weight of the secret.

Secrets are heavy. Carrying your loved one's choices quietly inside a family creates constant pressure—a weight that never lets up. It sits on your chest at night. It follows you into conversations. It shapes how you move through the world.

When the story is spoken, that weight eases. Not because the problem is solved, but because it's no longer being carried alone.

All three of these—shame, isolation, secrecy—keep families stuck. Sharing the story begins to dismantle them.

But there's still a question that families wrestle with.

Should We Wait Until It's Over?

What if we're still in the middle of it? What if our loved one is still using? What if they haven't chosen help yet? What if we don't have a happy ending?

Should we testify or should we wait?

Scripture gives us clarity here.

There's a moment in the Gospels where a man's daughter dies. When Jesus arrives at the house, people are wailing and mourning. And Jesus says something that sounds almost offensive: "The child is not dead, but asleep." (Mark 5:39)

Jesus wasn't denying reality. He wasn't pretending nothing had happened. He was declaring what was coming.

The situation was death. But resurrection was how it should be.

In the same way, your loved one may be enslaved to their choices right now—but freedom is what God intends. Testifying in the middle of the struggle isn't lying. It's aligning your voice with God's promise rather than your fear.

This is part of what it means to exercise spiritual authority. You're not a passive victim of your loved one's choices. You're a son or daughter of God declaring what He says is true, even when circumstances haven't caught up yet.

Testimony as Weapon, Not Reward

Sometimes testimony isn't the reward for victory. Sometimes testimony is part of how victory comes.

Telling a family they can't speak until everything is fixed is like telling a drowning person they can't have a lifejacket until they reach shore.

That doesn't make sense.

We don't only testify after the pain is over. Sometimes we testify so that we can endure it.

Think about it this way: when you're in the middle of the battle, your testimony does two things. First, it reminds you of God's faithfulness. Every time you speak about what God has done before, you're building your own faith for what He's going to do now.

Second, it encourages others who are in the same fight. When you share your story—even the unfinished, messy, still-fighting-for-breakthrough story—you give hope to families who thought they were alone.

Your testimony doesn't have to be polished. It doesn't have to be tied up with a bow. It just has to be honest.

I've heard families say, "I can't share yet. It's too raw. It's not over. I don't want to speak too soon."

But here's what I've learned: the rawness is what makes it powerful. The fact that it's not over yet is exactly why someone else needs to hear it. Because they're not over it either. And hearing that you're still standing, still fighting, still believing God—that might be the lifejacket they need.

What Testimony Looks Like in the Middle

So what does it actually look like to testify when you're still in the middle of it?

It means being honest about where you are. Not pretending everything is fine when it's not. Not giving a fake victory report when you're still in the battle.

It means naming the struggle while declaring God's faithfulness. "My son is still using. I don't know when he'll choose help. But I know God hasn't given up on him, and neither have I."

It means sharing what you're learning even when you don't have all the answers. "I'm learning to set boundaries. I'm learning what real love looks like. I'm learning to move beyond the broken past that shaped our family."

It means pointing others toward the hope you're clinging to. Not manufactured hope. Not cheap positivity. But the deep, anchored hope that comes from knowing God is still at work even when you can't see it yet.

And sometimes it means admitting you're tired. Admitting you're angry. Admitting you don't understand why God hasn't moved yet. That's testimony too. Because other families are tired and angry and confused, and they need to know they're not less faithful because they feel those things.

The Power of an Unfinished Story

Here's what I've seen happen when families share their unfinished stories:

Other families stop feeling alone. They realize the pressure they've been under isn't unique to them. They find community with people who understand in ways no one else can.

The family sharing the story finds strength they didn't know they had. There's something about speaking truth out loud that makes it more real. When you declare God's faithfulness in the middle of the storm, you're not just encouraging others—you're building your own faith.

God gets glorified in the waiting. We tend to think God only gets glory when the story ends well. But I've watched God receive more glory through a family's faithful endurance in the middle than through some quick-fix testimonies. Because faithful endurance points to a God who's worth trusting even when circumstances haven't changed yet.

Shame loses its grip. The moment you speak, shame has to leave. It can't survive in the light. And once you've shared your story the first time, it gets easier every time after that.

And sometimes—not always, but sometimes—sharing your story becomes part of your mission. What started as your pain becomes your platform. What was meant to destroy you becomes the thing God uses to bring hope to others.

When Not to Share

Now, let me be clear about something: there's wisdom in timing.

You don't share your story everywhere with everyone. There are times when sharing would put you or your loved one at risk. There are times when sharing would violate trust in ways that damage relationships beyond repair.

If your loved one is in treatment and doing well, you might need to be careful about sharing details that could embarrass them or make their transition home harder. Testimony doesn't mean broadcasting private information that isn't yours to share.

If you're in an unsafe situation—if there's active violence or threat—your first responsibility is safety, not testimony. Get help. Get out. Protect yourself and any children involved. Testimony can come later.

And if you're still so raw that sharing would break you down rather than build others up, it might not be time yet. There's a difference between raw honesty and being so wounded that you can't function. Take care of yourself first. Find your own support. Let God heal you enough that you can speak without falling apart.

But if you're waiting for the "perfect" time to share—when everything is resolved, when you have all the answers, when your loved one is clean and restored and the family is healed—you might wait forever. And in that waiting, you'll miss the opportunity to help families who need to hear that someone else is still fighting too.

The Call to Testify

For families dealing with a loved one's addiction, testimony isn't optional. It's part of how you fight.

When families share their story even while they're still walking through the battle it weakens shame, breaks isolation, and lifts the weight they've been carrying alone.

That doesn't guarantee instant change. But it creates space for healing to begin.

And for families who have been holding their breath for far too long, that space matters more than they realize.

Your story isn't finished yet. That's okay. Share it anyway.

Someone out there is drowning. And your voice, your honest, unfinished, still-fighting voice, might be the lifejacket they need.

This is part of what I call the Sandals phase in the complete framework for moving from recovery to restoration. It's when you realize you're not just surviving—you're going somewhere. Your pain has purpose. Your story has power. You're on a mission, even if that mission is just helping one other family know they're not alone.

So testify. Not because the battle is over. But because you're still standing. And that matters.