When Pain Should Have Made Us Kinder

During my time supporting women, I’ve encountered a phenomenon that I’ve been unable to shake. I understand when someone hasn’t walked through hardship. It’s hard to grasp another woman’s exhaustion, her quiet prayers, or her struggle to get out of bed when life has always felt steady for you. What’s harder to understand is when someone has walked through pain, when they have seen the mercy of God firsthand, and instead of letting that experience tenderize their heart, they let it harden it.

I’ve met women who have faced their own storms and survived, yet when they see another woman trying to stand again, they criticize. They gossip. They distance themselves. And I often wonder why.

Is it because when they were hurting, no one reached for them? Is it that they cried for help and heard silence? Did the absence of comfort cause them to forget how to offer it? Or is it because the pain they endured never truly healed, and what looks like strength is really scar tissue—thick, numb, and protective?

Whatever the reason, it breaks my heart because pain was never meant to make us cold. Pain was meant to draw us closer to compassion.

When I look back over my own journey, some seasons should have broken me completely. Yet God, in His mercy, carried me through. He didn’t let the pain consume me; He allowed it to refine me. And over time, I learned something sacred. When you survive something that should have taken you out, the assignment that follows survival is service.

Our pain becomes redemptive when we use it to lighten someone else’s load. It becomes purposeful when we reach back, not with judgment, but with grace.

Imagine a world where women who have suffered don’t wear their stories like badges of superiority but like lamps guiding others through the darkness. Imagine if every healed woman became a living bridge for another woman’s breakthrough.

That’s how healing multiplies. That’s how sisterhood becomes sacred again.

So if you’ve walked through your own fire and lived to tell it, here are some ways to turn your pain into compassion and let your story become someone else’s survival guide.

1. Pause Before You Judge

When you see another woman struggling, whether she’s repeating mistakes you once made or fighting a battle you think she should have outgrown, pause. Remember what it felt like when you didn’t have all the answers. Judgment is easy; empathy requires remembering. Take a moment to recall how much grace it took for you to grow.

2. Share the Wisdom, Not the Wound

There’s a difference between replaying pain and redeeming it. When you share your story, focus on the lesson, not the lingering hurt. Offer insight, not injury. You never know whose faith will rise because you dared to say, “I’ve been there, and God brought me through.”

3. Offer Quiet Help

Compassion doesn’t always need an audience. Sometimes it appears to be a private check-in. Other times, it’s sending a prayer, paying for lunch, or connecting her with a resource that could help. Compassion in action is often quiet, but its impact is lasting.

4. Heal So You Can See Clearly

Unhealed wounds can distort our perception of others. They whisper, “She doesn’t deserve help. She needs to toughen up.” But healing reorients your heart. It allows you to see people as they are, not through the lens of your own pain. Prioritize your healing through prayer, therapy, rest, or community so that your empathy stays tender.

5. Celebrate Her Win Without Comparison

When another woman rises, she doesn’t take your light; she multiplies it. Celebrate her victories loudly and sincerely. There’s a peace that comes from knowing that what God does for someone else is proof of what He can do for you. Be her cheerleader, not her critic.

Sisterhood isn’t about perfection. It’s about grace. It’s about being able to say, “I see you,” and mean it. Every woman you meet is fighting a battle that may not look like yours, but deserves the same mercy that saved you.

If you’ve survived something that could have destroyed you, don’t let the story end with you. Let your healing become someone else’s lifeline. That’s where true beauty, strength, and peace begin.

Because the women who thrive are not the ones who never fell; they are the ones who rise and reach back.