Learning to Return
I used to believe that if I loved Jesus enough, peace would come naturally.
I never imagined anxiety would become part of my story.
I certainly never imagined it would become part of my ministry.
Honestly, I thought that if I loved Jesus, stayed connected to Christian community, read and studied my Bible, and prayed for God’s will to be done life would mostly make sense.
I wasn’t expecting easy.
But I craved manageable.
What shook me wasn't simply that I was struggling.
It was that I was struggling as someone who genuinely loved Jesus.
I couldn't reconcile the faith I believed with the fear I was experiencing.
I kept thinking:
How is this happening?
I love Jesus.
I'm supposed to have hope and peace no matter what.
It turns out loving Jesus doesn't exempt us from being human.
So I did what perfectionists do.
I turned my life into a report card.
Best mom ever.
Worst mom ever.
Thriving wife.
Utter failure.
Strong leader.
Secret fraud.
There was no middle ground. No grace. Just a constant internal performance review.
One night, I posted a short, slightly desperate message in a private moms Facebook group that basically communicated:
I’m not okay.
The response was sincere solidarity. Several moms responded with encouragement that I wasn’t alone in my struggles. I felt seen and safe.
One mom’s private DM would, quite literally, go on to save my life.
She didn’t over-spiritualize the situation.
She didn’t offer me advice or cherry-pick Bible verses to throw at my pain.
She simply leaned in and offered a lifeline of hope.
She shared the names of three counselors from the center she was interning. And they sat quietly in my inbox for the next few weeks — in case I ever feel like talking to someone.
I was thankful, but was in no rush to make the call.
I wasn’t against counseling…
I just didn’t understand the scope of what I was dealing with.
So I tried to power through.
Until my body stopped cooperating.
Chest pains and shortness of breath sent me to the ER.
I thought I was having a heart attack.
But after hours of tests and waiting, they determined there was nothing wrong with me. I can’t recall a time I felt more defeated and hopeless.
Then the Lord reminded me of those three names sitting in my inbox.
I called the next day and within five minutes of sitting with the therapist, it was clear I was dealing with generalized anxiety disorder and depression. And those terrifying chest pains were actually a panic attack.
For the first time in months,
I could breathe.
The chaos had a name.
But healing came in layers
Therapy gave me language for what I was experiencing.
Medication quieted the noise enough for me to breathe again.
Safe community reminded me I wasn't alone.
A ministry called Life Skills invited me into deeper emotional honesty and began unraveling patterns I'd carried for years.
Later, Freedom Movement helped me rediscover my body—not as something to fear or fight against, but as something God had lovingly created and could use as part of my healing.
Looking back, I don't think there was one thing that changed me.
There were a thousand small moments of grace.
A friend.
A therapist.
A church.
A ministry.
A practice.
A conversation.
A God who never stopped meeting me.
What I once saw as weakness, I slowly began to recognize as wisdom.
My body wasn't betraying me.
It was trying to protect me.
As my body began to experience safety, I found it easier to receive the God who had been with me all along.
I'm still healing.
Which means I'm still practicing.
Practicing returning.
Returning to God's presence.
Returning to what is true.
Returning to the safety of His love.
Returning to the person He created me to be.
Healing isn't a destination.
It's a thousand small returns.
Perfectionist me was hoping for a dramatic “ta-da!” moment.
Real life is more of a slow burn.
But here’s what I know now:
You don’t need to be perfect to move.
You don’t need to have everything figured out.
You don’t need to be fully healed.
You just need your next brave step.
Today, I help Christian women practice living rooted instead of reactive.
Together, we learn the sacred practice of returning—not because we've mastered it, but because God's grace always invites us home.
Home to God's presence,
to what is true,
to the safety of His love,
and, little by little, to ourselves.
I don't have this all figured out.
I still have anxious days.
I still drift.
I still forget.
But I've learned something I never knew all those years ago.
Returning isn't failure.
It's the way home.
What People Are Saying
The middle can feel messy. You don’t have to navigate it alone.
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Let’s find your next small step together.