I’m pretty sure I didn’t know the word plagiarism when I was in the fourth grade, but when my teacher set a little book in front of me and told me to copy the poem in my neatest handwriting, an alarm sounded in my soul. And of course, I did it.

Then Mrs. Jones (not her real name) announced that I had won second place in a state writing competition and there would be a ceremony honoring the winners. What? I got all dressed up in my Sunday best and stood on that stage to accept my ribbon as my parents watched proudly from their little metal chairs. I locked eyes with my teacher. We both knew I was a fraud.

For thirty-two years I carried around that dirty little secret. Every time I saw that stupid poem, I was overcome with shame and I would slam the memory book closed in disgust. If you asked my mom about the poem, she would glow, probably thinking she had given birth to the next Maya Angelou.

Every time I had to write, I would refuse to read anything else on the subject for fear that I would write someone else’s words. I was in knots writing my twenty-seven page graduate school paper, making sure with every stroke of the key that the words were my own.

Just days ago, as I sat across the table from my mother, I confessed to her that I was not the poetic author she thought me to be. I told her how I carried this burden all these years, and then I understood the freedom of confession. We laughed about it, but for a long time, the thought of it did not evoke laughter.

It began with my teacher instructing me to copy the poem. It progressed with me copying it and her entering it into the competition. Then, as I stood on that stage, my teacher met me with a gaze that said you didn’t really do this but you better never tell anyone.

I was all in.

At any point I could have admitted this horrible lie, but it kept compounding and I kept burying it deeper and deeper until it was so far down that it only surfaced occasionally. I wasn’t meant to live like that. You aren’t meant to live like that.

There are times when we are victims of others, and times when we bear the burden of our own choices, but there is a common thread to freedom that can come regardless of the circumstances.

A precious friend reminded me that confessing our fears and poor choices takes power away from the enemy. When we say it aloud, his grip slips. He thrives on the personal anguish we subject ourselves to, encouraging us to give up.

It was the time of year when kings were supposed to be in battle, but David chose to stay behind. While on his rooftop one evening, he saw the beautiful Bathsheba and had her brought to him. Then he got her pregnant. Then he tried to cover it up by bringing back her husband from the battle. Then, when Uriah proved to be too honorable, David had him killed and took Bathsheba for his wife.

By the time David was done digging his hole, it was so deep he couldn’t climb out on his own. But David repented and God forgave him. David did have consequences, just as I did, but the forgiveness was complete.

If you think you’re in too deep, think again. God is in the business of rescuing us, and He is never shocked by the things we do. He is ready and willing to forgive when we take responsibility for our actions. His love for us is exponentially greater than we can understand.

Do not keep it hidden.