Admitting the Pain

In 2018, I finally met my match with my mental health. Life became almost unbearable. Even though I grew up in church, believed in the Bible, and followed Jesus with every fiber of my being, I suddenly found myself unable to breathe under the weight of it all. I’d started a new job, was navigating single life again after my first husband walked out on me, and I was even helping launch a church as the Youth Pastor with childhood friends from the goat barn. My life seemed good—busy, but good—until it wasn’t.

A moment of fear forced me to reach out for help, and as I realized I needed to refocus on my mental well-being, I poured myself into the process. I did what I had to do, feeling God with me every step of the way. Through difficult conversations, coming to terms with what had happened, and sharing my struggles with loved ones, I believed God had placed the perfect people in my life—people who’d serve me and support me through the darkness. Or so I thought.

There’s something both terrifying and freeing about naming your fears out loud. The moment you do, it becomes real—and you can’t hide behind an “I’m fine” anymore. Initially, I felt a wave of relief, convinced that my spiritual family would rally around me. But the reaction I encountered wasn’t what I expected.

The Unexpected Hurt

I wish I could say the church community I was part of met my confession with unwavering support. Instead, I experienced judgment, hushed whispers, and a reluctance to truly engage with the depth of my pain. What cut the deepest, though, was losing my chance to serve as a Youth pastor.

The people I trusted most were building a new kingdom for God yet turning their back on a sheep. They let me walk out of that coffee shop without even acknowledging how I must have felt—no apology to this day for how it was handled. I could have walked away from church for good; I could have decided Jesus was no longer my Savior. Instead, I ran straight to another church, jumping right into what they were offering and busying myself in a new flurry of activity.

It felt like another betrayal—piling on top of the trauma I’d already endured. For someone who grew up in church, it was disheartening to learn that not everyone in a faith community knows how to handle trauma or walk alongside someone in deep emotional turmoil. Some are simply unprepared for how raw honesty challenges the status quo.

Why Honesty Matters

Despite everything, I don’t regret admitting my trauma. But looking back now, as I dive into my year of healing, I see it was just one of several moments where I never truly healed—I only ran to the next door. I realize now that I never actually allowed myself to process the pain; I just found new ways to keep myself distracted. I never really healed; I just ran.

I didn’t see the perks of honesty back then. I do now, of course, and while it helped me step into the light, when I was in the thick of it, it was very dark. As I’m healing, I’m learning that while others fall short, God remains constant, quietly reminding me that true healing is still possible—even if it doesn’t look like I once imagined.

Learning (Again) to Be Still

This realization brought me back to the lesson I started grasping on Christmas Eve: Be still. I recognized how often I’d been “fixing” myself through serving—leading youth or taking on church responsibilities—rather than letting God address the roots of my hurt.

• Stillness forces me to confront the reality that not everyone will stand by me when life gets messy.

• Stillness reminds me I can’t outrun my pain by throwing myself into work or ministry.

• Stillness opens my heart to God’s voice, whispering that His healing isn’t dependent on others’ comfort zones.

The Hard Truth of Healing

Healing from trauma while dealing with church hurt is rarely neat or straightforward. It can be heartbreaking when the people you expected to have your back don’t show up—or worse, push you away. It may lead you to question your faith or wonder if you belong at all.

If you’re reading this and you’ve felt a similar disappointment, you’re not alone. Your healing might come from counseling, genuine friendships, or a personal journey with God apart from a particular church’s response. However it happens, know that it can happen.

A Light in the Darkness

My most painful moments have also been the most transformative. Admitting my trauma led me to discover a deeper reliance on God—a faith untethered from human expectations. Instead of focusing on who failed me, I’m learning to look to the One who never fails me.

In the midst of what feels like darkness, I’m comforted by the words of Psalm 34:18:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

It’s a reminder that even when people turn away, God draws near, offering hope in the very place we feel most alone.

Where I Go From Here

So, what’s next? I’m staying on The Healing Path—confronting my trauma and trusting that God will guide me through every messy, unpredictable step. I’m choosing not to run, but to stand still, let God work, and allow myself the grace to heal.

I thought this would be the last church hurt I would ever face, but it wasn’t. I hope you’ll stay to read about the others in the upcoming weeks. I hope you find these stories and reflections something you can connect to. I could have turned my back on Jesus. I could have run away from the building, the communities, the duties—yet I still come back. I still show up because I realize our flesh is far different from the love Jesus has for me. I stay because Jesus is never giving up on me.

I’m staying and sharing because healing is something I desperately want this year. 2025 is my year to heal. I’m passionate about it, and sometimes I get so emotional I can hardly stop writing because I feel God nudging me to keep going. By writing, I’m already healing. I’m already caring for my mental health. I’m following the path Jesus showed me on Christmas Eve 2024, and I know I will do big things and heal in big ways.

Thank you for reading this piece of my journey. Healing is a process, not a destination—and sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is just keep showing up, trusting that God’s love will meet us exactly where we are.

Hugs & Healing!