Leaving the Stranger Behind

There was a time in my life—more than a decade ago now—when I was looking for love in all the wrong places.

I didn’t know the Lord yet. I didn’t know what real peace felt like. I only knew what emptiness felt like. What hunger felt like. And I was convinced the answer was out there somewhere—maybe in someone’s arms. Maybe in something easy. Something instant. Something that could make the ache stop, even if only for a little while.

Back then, I believed a lie. A common one. That intimacy could heal loneliness, even if that intimacy wasn’t real. I believed that if I could just feel wanted—even for a night—it might quiet the fear inside me. The one whispering, “You’re too broken. You’ll never be loved for real.”

So I chased comfort in the arms of strangers.

I remember one night—over ten years ago—I was in a woman’s apartment. We didn’t know each other well, barely at all. The lights were low, the conversation shallow, and my heart was so far from present I may as well have been on another planet. Afterward, I sat on the edge of the bed pulling my jeans back on, and I thought, What am I even doing here?

She said, “You don’t have to go yet.”

And I remember forcing a polite smile and mumbling something like, “Yeah, I’ve got an early start.”

But inside I felt hollow. Because I wasn’t chasing pleasure. I was chasing proof. Proof that I wasn’t unlovable. That someone, anyone, might want me. And yet every time I gave myself away like that, I felt less human afterward. Not more.

And here’s the thing I didn’t understand then—but I see so clearly now:
When you give yourself to someone you don’t truly love, someone who doesn’t love you with Christ’s love, what you’re really doing is using their body as a dumping ground for your pain.

You’re not connecting. You’re escaping. And escape always costs more than it promises.

The comfort of strangers always promises relief. It offers pleasure. Distraction. Escape. But the final invoice comes stamped with shame, secrecy, addiction, and spiritual death.

Because the path of lust doesn’t end in satisfaction. It ends in sorrow.
It ends with a version of yourself you barely recognize.
A soul-numbed, mirror-staring version who wonders, Where did the real me go?

And this isn’t just about real-world encounters.
It’s about the digital ones too.

It’s about the private browser tab.
The folder you think no one knows about.
The lies you tell yourself like: “I’m not hurting anyone.”

Over a decade ago, I used to sit alone in my room with the lights off, face lit only by a laptop screen. I’d click from image to image, video to video, always telling myself the same lie: Just one more. Then I’ll stop.

And afterward, I’d delete my history. Shut the lid. Pretend I had control.

But I didn’t have control. That’s what addiction is.

I thought I was managing it, but really, it was managing me.
I thought I was indulging a harmless habit, but I was training my eyes to see women as content. Not sacred creations. Not someone’s daughter. Not someone’s future wife. Just content.

And over time, that rewired what I desired in the real world.
That’s how marriages die without a single word.
Not from loud betrayal—but from slow erosion.

When I look back now, I realize those moments were more dangerous than I ever thought.
Because when you’re stuck in pornography or lust, you’re standing in the hallway between slavery and freedom.

It doesn’t feel like slavery yet.
It doesn’t feel like freedom either.
It just feels... manageable.
That’s the trap.

Because the hallway is where compromises grow. Quietly. Slowly. And they kill you while you sleep.

The “stranger” fantasy—whether it’s flesh-and-blood or pixels on a screen—is never about connection.
It’s about control.
It’s about power.
It’s about escaping pain you haven’t dealt with.

But here’s the truth:
You don’t have to carry that pain anymore.
You don’t have to hide in the hallway.

Jesus said:

That’s not just an invitation. That’s a promise.

He’s not standing at the end of your hallway with folded arms, waiting to scold you.
He’s standing right beside you, saying, “Let’s leave this place. I’ve got something better.”

If you’re caught in addiction right now—maybe it’s pornography, maybe it’s hookups, maybe it’s just the fantasy in your head you can’t seem to stop feeding—I’m not here to shame you. I’m here to point you to freedom.

Jesus doesn’t just forgive sin. He frees people from it.
He breaks chains. He binds wounds. He restores what was lost.

But here’s the part no one talks about:
You’ve got to surrender everything.
You’ve got to walk away from the fantasy—and toward the real.
Toward Him.

You’ve got to ask yourself, What am I really trying to escape?
Because once you face that pain, and hand it to the King of Kings...
You don’t need the stranger anymore.
You don’t need the screen.
You don’t need the lie.

You’ll be able to look in the mirror and say,
“I know who I am. I’m His.”

And when that happens—when you step out of the hallway and into the light—
That’s when real life begins.

What pain are you secretly trying to escape… and are you willing to let Christ heal it?