I didn’t plan on becoming someone who talks about the messy middle for a living.

Honestly, I thought if I loved Jesus, stayed connected to Christian community, and read my Bible, things would mostly make sense. Not be easy — but be manageable.

Then anxiety and depression knocked on my door when my kids were one and three.

Uninvited. Loud. Confusing.

What threw me wasn’t just that I was struggling.

It was that I was struggling as someone with a grounded faith.

I kept thinking, How is this happening? I love Jesus. I’m supposed to have hope and peace no matter what.

Apparently, loving Jesus does not exempt you from mental health struggles.

So I did what perfectionists do.

I graded myself.

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.

A friend replied to my post.

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 and solidarity.

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 would take time. A long time.

I’ve been on a slow, steady, decade-long journey through therapy, medication, education, and untangling childhood trauma.

Somewhere along the way, I learned something that changed everything:

Mental health struggles are not faith failures.

You can love Jesus and still wrestle with anxiety.
You can trust God and still need therapy.
You can believe truth and still take medication.

Needing help doesn’t mean you’re broken beyond repair.

It means you’re human.

I’m still healing. I likely always will be.

But that doesn’t scare me anymore.

It turns out healing isn’t a flaw — it’s a rhythm.

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 women dismantle perfectionism,

rediscover trust in God,

and take that step in their own messy middle.

Not because I’ve mastered it.

But because I’ve lived it.

And I believe deeply that you are not disqualified by your struggle.

You are becoming.