What’s Wrong With Me?

Part 1: A breakthrough, not a breakdown.

If you looked in on my life, watching the summer scenes roll like a vignette in a movie (Is it a romance? Comedy? Drama?) - I don’t think it would look like anything is wrong with me.

This week started with a workout at the college track, where I found a love note Nick had written in chalk on a telephone pole (maybe this IS a romance). Then, about miway through the week, there are the snapshots I took of my laptop in an overcrowded office - because I want to remember this season before it passes. Looking back at the camera roll on my phone, I found a picture of my youngest son that my oldest son took when we went to the beach on Friday. We laughed, played lime ball (a game we made up), and listened to our family beach playlist.

But I’ve been exploring healing the last few months, and this week while journaling - God gave me some language to describe what’s been going on. Maybe this happens when you decide to live in the light + write in the dark.

Part 2: I used to be fearless.

My friend Lindsay tells me I’ve gotten soft. However, she’s kind enough not to unpack whether or not that’s good or bad.

A few weeks ago, after an awful night of panic attacks, my husband, friend, and spiritual director each said the same thing to me: “You haven’t always felt like this + you won’t always feel like this.

That they all said the same thing on the same day felt like a gift from God. I needed to hear that to remember I haven’t always been plagued with anxiety as I have in the last two years. As I was journaling about the old days, the season before I went soft (as Lindsay would say), I was struck by how fearless I used to be. It wasn’t that I was brave when we planted a church or when I stepped into publishing. It wasn’t that I was choosing courage when we moved ten times in 9 years. Instead, for whatever reason, I didn’t feel scared. I’m always telling women that you can’t be brave until you’re scared.

My best guess is that God used my fearlessness for a season to help me step into some callings that required great faith: motherhood, leading a church, writing, and leading online.

When I consider any of these callings now - they all seem so scary. I’m so grateful I’m in them, but on the other side of saying yes, I see what they cost and what they demand of my life.

Part 3: I hate the worship song, "Oceans.”

The song was a big deal the summer we moved to Charleston to plant Bright City. “Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander…”. A few years after we moved, I started hating that song. What a scary thing to sing! Do you want to feel like you’re drowning all the time? That’s terrifying!

I was thinking about that song this week as I journaled too, and this is where I’ll cut to the chase.

I think somewhere along the way, I began believing some lies about the faith it would take to sustain the “yeses” I’d given to God. I bought the lie that I had to be likable, relatable, and almost always available to be a good church leader. (Sidebar: Everyone knows this is a lie, but we all still collectively believe it and I’m nowhere near done writing about it).

I bought the lie that I had to have all the answers as a mom, that I couldn’t be unsure or weak or need help. (Sidebar: why is it that the more kids you have, the less you feel like you can ask for help?)

I bought the lie that told me I needed to constantly put out new content, stay aware of every subtle shift in Christian culture, and seem as knowledgeable as possible on all things to sustain my calling to write.

Looking back, what I needed to sustain the giant leaps of faith that landed me in the deep end was different. I needed (and need) time with God in the secret place, preserving + stewarding my soul through boundaries, asking for help and walking in humility, and most of all: acknowledging what was never mine to hold.

Imagine when Jesus invited Peter to walk on water with Him. Imagine if Peter had tried to sustain that act for years through his sheer will and determination. He’d probably end up pretty tired and scared, right?

I’m done doggy paddling and flailing to stay afloat.

Onward to healing. Because once you have language for what’s happening, the next thing that follows is the tools to fight. 

I’m hopeful and ready. Let’s keep going.

Jess