The tour guide's name is fear. He doesn't have a schedule, but I look at the clock anyway. He's never right on time.

He knows his way around because he's been around far too long. He's happy to take you along for the ride, as long as you're happy to flood me.

Insecurities flood my stomach. Doubts flood my gut. I feel them unexpectedly bump into each other. They find it a wonderful surprise. I find it an unstoppable downfall.

Smiling at one another as they realize they’re in control, my heart races as they sprint through my chest. They continue to climb, finding their way into my throat, cutting off all air, forcing my breaths to become short and quick, making all that I am go weak.

Reaching my eyes, they form into tears. I barely even blink. They begin to fall. One by one at first. Then all at once.

They whisper to me as they go. "Not enough," One. "Too much," Two three. "Try harder," fourfivesixseven.

I stop counting. I can’t keep track. I can't keep track. I don’t want to. I don’t want to know them each by name. I simply want to let them fall, let them go, let them leave.

Like any unwelcome guests, I know they'll be gone as quickly as they came. Down my cheeks, my neck, my chest. They retrace the path they had risen on. Just as quickly. Just as suddenly.

I look at the clock. It was only 30 seconds ago.

The day I typed this into my phone, I told myself I'd never allow other eyes to read it. I'd never allow other people to know this side of me, the side of me that isn't always happy and always encouraging. I'd never allow my rarest fears and insecurities and doubts out of the dark that they hide in.

But now I have to. Because a lot can happen in 30 seconds.

A little more than a week ago, a friend and I were talking about how quickly so many of us can go from being totally victorious in Christ to totally defeated by the world. I was a mess of frustration and with one big sigh, I asked how we were ever going to make it stop. She only said three little words, but I ran with them.

“Identity in Christ.”

I got back to my room that night and started to think about what those three simple words meant. I started to replay those 30 seconds that I'd written about that sometimes fit their way into my day. I thought about how quickly I reject myself, and I realized that if I was truly finding my identity in Christ the way I’m called to, yet I constantly reject myself, I’m rejecting Christ. The one thing we all say we’d never do as Christians, and I indirectly do it all the time.

I knew something had to change, something had to break, so I told myself that when I woke up the next morning I was going to ask God one simple question, and I was going to continue asking it until I not only knew but also believed the answer.

"Who do you say that I am?"

And yes, I know there are plenty of places to find those answers. I’ve read all the Bible verses. I’ve read a good amount of the self-love Christian books. I’ve put the Post-Its on my mirror. I’ve written the mantras on my hand. But here I am, eight years into my faith, and I still struggle with this concept.

When I was younger, it used to be much worse. I've come a long way, but I still have my days. I still have my 30 seconds. I still sometimes find myself allowing the world to convince me that I’m either too much or I’m not enough, depending on the day.

One day the lies will be that I’m too loud, I’m too dramatic, I’m too emotional, I’m too naive. The next day the lies will be that I’m not kind enough, I’m not loving enough, I’m not selfless enough, I'm not Christ-like enough.

So I wanted the answer to that one question to finally be heard loud and clear.

But then all I heard was silence. I was asking and listening diligently, just to hear nothing in response. My immediate thought was, “Oh, good. This is God's way of saying that I’m empty.”

A few days into the silence, two of my co-workers -- who are also two of my best friends -- and I had a self-love program happening for residents in our building. I didn't feel right leading this program while my frustration with God's silence was at its peak, so that day I was asking for an answer about every 20 minutes.

But still, nothing. I don't recommend cursing during prayers, but after patiently asking, "Who do you say that I am?" several times that day, I finally found myself in my room crying out, "Who the hell do you think I am?!"

Silence.

I went into the program with a heavy heart because I knew that I had to set myself aside, and I had to be determined to tell residents who they are even though I felt like God was failing to tell me who I am.

One part of the program included each of the residents standing against a white board while everyone wrote words of affirmation around them. Now if you know me, you know that I don’t do well with receiving words of affirmation. They’re my very last love language. I can hand them out, but I can’t receive them. I typically just laugh it off and change the conversation.

This program was entirely set up for me to hand out words of affirmation, so you can imagine the sinking feeling in my stomach when my residents said, “Chey, your turn!”

Before I could even fight them, I was taken away from my job as DJ and pushed up against the board. I was surrounded by residents, so naturally all my fears from this past year with them were awakened inside of me. I felt fear get ready to take insecurities and doubts on a tour of my heart and my mind. And this situation was the perfect setting for me to allow it to do just that.

I remembered the summer day, being in the car with my mom when I first saw all of my resident’s names in an email. I remembered who I wanted to be for them. I remembered that as the end of the year quickly approached, I felt like I had totally failed. I had so many high hopes for who I could’ve been to them this year, and I didn’t feel like I had lived up to any of them.

I felt it in my stomach, in my chest, in my throat. The 30 seconds were starting.

Before the tears could form, they stopped writing and everyone started taking pictures before letting me turn around. I looked at my two best friends/co-workers and my stomach dropped.

One of them cries pretty often, like me, but one of them rarely does, and her eyes were filled with tears reading the board behind me. Although I didn’t know what I was about to turn around and see, I knew something was about to break.

I took a deep breath, looked at the sweet faces of my best friends and my residents, and I turned around.

The first thing I saw said, “leading example of what it’s like to walk through life in love for God," the number one thing I thought I had failed my residents with this year. As I let my tear-filled eyes wander around the board, I started to wonder if one of them had stolen my journal. The things that I'd been thinking I wasn't or wishing I was were written on that board.

I felt something like a switch flip in my heart. The light turned on, and I learned quickly that fear doesn’t like light. All the fears that had just awakened inside of me began to flee. And without fear as their tour guide, insecurities and doubts don't know where to go because they simply don't belong.

I looked at the words of affirmation that would've once made me cringe. I thought about how, instead, they had made my fears crumble. I looked at the people in that room. I thought about perfect love, about how I've never met anyone who hasn't had to fight off their own set of fears and doubts and insecurities, about how we have to let others in if we want to know that we're not alone.

We have to accept their words of affirmation and reject the lies of this world. Because only through loving one another can we see who we were created by and created to be.

The silence was finally breaking. I could hear my Creator loud and clear.

“This is who I say you are.”

And I had only turned around 30 seconds ago.