HELLO, ANXIETY...YOU BROUGHT YOUR FRIEND, DEPRESSION.

The first time I remember having feelings of anxiety was in eighth grade. Looking back, I can identify it, I can give those feelings a name. But throughout middle school, high school, and college, I just thought I had ALOT of feelings. I thought most girls in their late teens could go from being ecstatically happy to utterly hopeless in a few seconds and not understand why. If I cried only once in a day, that was the sign of a really good day. When I was in my last years of college, I knew something wasn’t right. I knew I probably shouldn’t be so sad all the time. I knew I probably shouldn’t be making plans to end my life. But I didn’t know that thinking about and making plans to end my life was as serious as actually ending my life. It wasn’t until I was married and thinking about having kids that I heard people talking openly about their own struggles with depression and anxiety. And It wasn’t until I was pregnant with my oldest son that I finally had the courage to go to therapy. It was during those first therapy sessions that I found freedom in knowing that there was actually something wrong (kind of a weird mindset, I know) but it was something that could be worked on. I didn’t need to live the rest of my life in complete and utter terror and devastating sadness.

Before I go any further, I want you to know that I was raised in a loving, Christian home. My parents were involved in church and so was I. God, Jesus, and the Bible were all common topics of conversation at home. At the age of 6, I came home one summer night and told my parents I wanted to be “saved”. (What that meant to me then was that I knew I had done bad things. I knew I wasn’t perfect, but God was. I knew that believing in Jesus would let me be with him in heaven when I die. I also knew that people who didn’t believe in Jesus would go to hell. I wanted God and Jesus to save me from going to hell.) I think I understood as much as six year old me could about faith and following God. As I got older, I was still very involved at church. I was on leadership teams in my youth group, I helped with kids camps, I invited people from my school. During my college years, I was a summer intern for an organization that planned mission trips and kids camps for youth groups. I ended up marrying a pastor!

I’m not saying all of this to create some sort of resume for myself. I’m wanting you to know that I have known the hope of Christ for most of my life and have still felt utterly hopeless. I grew up hearing about the great commission yet there are many times I wonder if I have a purpose. I spent years telling people that God loved them but had times where I didn’t feel loved. I remember specific times where I have felt God’s presence in a room but sometimes, in the midst of the chaos of four crazy boys crowding me, I still find myself feeling completely alone.

There are so many people who are willing to talk about the highs of life, but not many willing to be vulnerable enough to talk about the nitty gritty of the lows. It is truly by God’s grace alone that I did not go through with any of the plans to end my life (because I had many opportunities to do so). But it is because I heard a few friends talk about their nitty gritty that I didn’t feel quite so alone. Because people were open about their hurts and their fears, I was able to get help.

I love Jesus. I want my kids to love Jesus. But I am broken and hurting because of sin. Day by day, minute by minute, second by second, I need to remind myself that I am loved, I am safe, I have a purpose, I am not alone, there is hope. As soon as I stop reminding myself of those truths, I start to believe the (very convincing) lies. Let’s open up the conversation and remind ourseves and eachother who we are and whose we are.

That’s what my hope is for this account: a reminder of who we are. I’m hoping this will be a space of open conversations, curious questions, and biblical truths.