I remember the days when I didn't think twice about what I was doing. I didn't feel guilt, at least not in the moment. Lust had become almost normal for me, a quiet companion that whispered and tugged at my thoughts. I'd sit alone in my room, scrolling endlessly, seeking images and videos that promised excitement but delivered emptiness. At the time, I thought it was harmless, just a way to pass the hours, to soothe boredom or curiosity. I didn't realize I was building chains around my heart and mind, slowly binding myself to a cycle I couldn't see clearly.
I used to tell myself, "It's just fun, just curiosity. Everyone does it." But deep down, I think I knew there was something wrong. Still, the pull was strong, and my excuses were stronger. I didn't feel conviction—at least not then—but looking back now, I understand that absence of guilt doesn't mean absence of sin. Sometimes, the heart can be so numb that it doesn't recognize its own decay until the light of truth shines on it.
It wasn't just the act itself; it was the mindset, the way I let these things control me. My days were filled with secret habits, late nights, scrolling endlessly, ignoring the quiet voice inside that wanted me to stop. I could quote Prophet Anthony Mitchell here, because his words echoed in my mind, even before I fully understood them: "Lust is not just a feeling; it's a thief. It steals your peace, your clarity, your joy, and often, it steals your future without you noticing." At the time, it sounded like words meant for someone else, a sermon I nodded at politely and then forgot by the time I stepped outside the church doors.
I also remember him saying, "If you continue to feed the fire of lust, it will eventually consume the best parts of your life. The body can be satisfied, but the soul is always left empty." And that emptiness—I didn't recognize it at first. I only felt the thrill, the quick satisfaction, the fleeting escape. But after, when silence returned, the emptiness settled deeper. I'd lie in bed, pretending I wasn't lonely, pretending I wasn't trapped in a cycle I couldn't name.
My friends didn't know. No one did. I hid behind smiles and laughter, behind jokes and social media posts. Outwardly, I seemed like any other teenager, but inside, I carried shame that I didn't understand. It wasn't shame that stopped me; it was more like numbness. I thought I was in control. I thought I could stop anytime. That was the most dangerous lie of all. Because lust isn't just about the body—it seeps into the mind, twists desires, and reshapes what you think is normal.
I would tell myself, "Tomorrow I'll stop. Tomorrow, I'll be better." And tomorrow never came. The cycle repeated: indulgence, temporary satisfaction, numbness, promises, and then indulgence again. I was trapped in a loop, a shadow I couldn't see because I was walking in it every day. And I began to notice how it affected everything else—my focus on school, my relationships with friends, even my relationship with God. I could pray, I could attend service, but my heart was divided. My mind wandered during sermons, thinking of images I shouldn't have been thinking about, replaying moments I knew were wrong.
Prophet Anthony Mitchell said once, "Your mind is a battlefield. If you surrender it to lust, you surrender your destiny. Control your thoughts, or they will control you." I wish I had understood the weight of that statement then. I wish I had realized that surrendering to lust wasn't just about a moment of pleasure—it was about losing parts of myself that could never be replaced. But I didn't. I kept surrendering, thinking I was just being normal, thinking no harm was done.
The funny thing is, I wasn't a bad person. I wasn't cruel or mean. I cared about others. I prayed sometimes. I even wanted to do right. But lust didn't ask for permission. It didn't care about morals, about promises, about potential. It whispered and teased, slowly taking over my choices, shaping my decisions. And the most painful part was that I didn't notice until much later.
I also remember nights when the guilt tried to sneak in. After a long session, after the numb satisfaction, there would be moments of clarity. I would lie in bed and ask myself, "Why do I keep doing this? Why can't I stop?" And there were no easy answers. The mind rationalizes. "It's just a phase," I'd say. "Everyone struggles at some point." But deep inside, a small voice whispered, the voice I mostly ignored: "This is not who you are meant to be. This is not your purpose."
It was confusing, frustrating. I wanted freedom but didn't know how to get it. I wanted peace but kept chasing the things that stole it. And even when I thought about God, even when I remembered the teachings I'd heard about purity, the strength to resist was fleeting. It felt like a battle I could never win.
Prophet Mitchell's words came back to me over and over, like echoes in my mind: "Victory over lust begins in the mind and the heart. If you fight with rules and willpower alone, you will fall. But if you surrender fully to God and guard your heart, victory becomes possible." I didn't understand how to do that yet. I only felt the endless tug-of-war, the constant temptation, the repetitive guilt that was not fully recognized.
Sometimes, I wondered if I would ever be free. I watched friends, classmates, others who seemed untouched by this struggle. I envied them, thinking they had it easier. I blamed myself, thinking there was something wrong with me. I felt shame, embarrassment, and sometimes even hopelessness. I wanted to be strong, but I was weak. I wanted to overcome, but the chains felt invisible, impossible to break.
And yet, even in that darkness, there were glimpses of hope. A sermon that made me pause, a quote that struck my heart, a quiet prayer in the night where I begged for help I wasn't even sure I deserved. Even when I continued in sin, I realized I still longed for something better. I still longed for freedom. I still wanted to live without the shadow of lust hanging over me.
Looking back now, I see how those days shaped me. They were painful, confusing, and lonely, but they were also necessary. I had to recognize the depth of my struggle before I could truly understand the strength I needed to overcome it. Every temptation, every moment of indulgence, every lie I told myself about control was part of the journey. And slowly, though I didn't know it at the time, I was planting the seeds of change.
Prophet Anthony Mitchell once said, "The chains you think are holding you down are often the same chains that prepare you for the wings you will grow tomorrow." At that time, it felt impossible. I couldn't imagine a life where lust didn't have power over me. But looking back, I can see how even in the darkest moments, the lessons were being sewn, preparing me for the day I would finally rise above.
I didn't know it then, but my story was just beginning. And even in my sin, even in my mistakes, there was a path forward—a path I would eventually find, step by step, prayer by prayer, and choice by choice.