A Moment of Heartache

This post will probably be a lot different from the ones you’ve read before, but it felt important not to shy away from what I’m feeling today. I started this blog Unrushed Faith because I didn’t want it to be cliché. I didn’t want it to be the kind of blog where real, raw emotions are filtered through polite language and wrapped in a pretty bow by the last sentence.

And as I’m writing this, I realize that today’s post may not wrap up beautifully.

It may not wrap up in hope.

It may not end in faith.

It may not finish with a scripture.

That doesn’t mean I’m a bad person.

That doesn’t mean I’m not a good Christian.

That doesn’t mean I don’t trust and believe in God.

It just means I’m choosing to feel what I feel—because we can’t heal authentically unless we feel honestly.

The masks have to come off.

I’ve been told I’m strong—but if I’m honest, I don’t want to be.

I have to be.

There’s no safe place for me to lay down my strength.

No safe space for me to take a step back.

No one to catch me when I fall.

I’m strong by survival, not by choice.

This is definitely the testing after the wilderness moment for me.

Some of you know my story—and if not, check the link in my bio about my recovery after a traumatic brain injury last year.

It came with both mental and physical challenges.

It was also the season where I battled suicidal thoughts harder than ever before.

Because of what I do for a living, I knew I couldn’t just take my life.

I thought about the people I’ve supported through their darkest moments.

How much blood would be on my hands?

So in my lowest moments, I tried to rationalize what it would look like if I could make it seem like an accident.

I had multiple plans—so many that I scared myself.

That was my lowest wilderness moment.

I’ve faced loss, grief, and chronic illness before.

But this—this was different.

I didn’t feel strong anymore.

And for me, that felt like complete wilderness.

I thought after that season, 2025 would be better.

I thought I’d be okay.

But just like Matthew 4—after the wilderness came the testing.

As I started to share my story and talk about hope and faith with others, I entered a spiritual attack from the enemy—just like he did with Jesus after the wilderness.

He started whispering things like:

“Do you really believe what you’re saying?”

“Do you actually have the mustard seed of faith you’re telling others to hold on to?”

Those weren’t my thoughts. That was his voice—showing up when I was tired, poured out, and vulnerable.

Do I believe that God will answer prayers?

Do I still have faith when some of those prayers are decades old and still unanswered?

Some days my faith says, Hold on.

Other days, if I’m honest, I ask, What’s the point?

I’m not saying this to talk anyone out of faith—I’m saying it because this is what never gets said in church.

This is what’s swept under the rug.

This is what gets hidden behind smiles and “praise God” responses.

But there’s healing in transparency.

There’s power in saying, “I don’t have it all together.”

There’s freedom in admitting that I get tested just like you.

Sometimes I pass.

Sometimes I don’t.

But whether I win or lose—I still need God.

Here’s the truth most people won’t say:

There are days when I’m too weary to pray.

Too tired to open my Bible.

Not because I don’t love God—but because I’m human.

That’s what this testing has felt like.

And now, as I follow God’s leading to pursue a Master of Divinity in Ministry to Women, I realize—He’s calling me to more.

I’m being pulled out from behind the scenes.

And I’ll be honest: I love being behind the scenes.

I love writing from my living room where no one sees me.

I don’t love being the face on the stage.

But God doesn’t always call us to what makes us comfortable.

Maybe that’s part of the testing too.