A gentle warning: This testimony touches on some difficult subjects. I’ve intentionally glossed over some of the more painful details—not because I’m embarrassed, but because I care about your well-being. Please be kind to yourself as you read.

Grab yourself a warm cup of coffee and snuggle in. This is just you and me chatting.

I was raised in a Christian home.

Isn’t that how all the vanilla testimonies begin? Does that make me a cliché?

Well, so be it.

I was raised by imperfect but loving parents who did their best to protect my little eyes and ears from the influence of the world. And honestly? They succeeded more than most parents I’ve met.

When I was eleven, after an evening Sunday service, something moved me to stumble my way to the front pew and ask to be baptized.

And I was.

That night, everything changed.

Literally.

Suddenly, I was bolder. Braver. I shared my faith with classmates and even asked my teachers’ religious questions.

From the outside, I was well-behaved. On the inside, I was tenderhearted.

Being a Christian was terrific!

And life continued to be amazing…

Dandy.

Nothing bad ever touches me!

Yeah. Right.

Even as a little kid, I struggled with belonging. Instead of developing a thick skin, I let every barb and joke sink deep into my heart.

Every name someone called me.

Every sin committed against me.

Every mistake I made.

I replayed them all on an endless loop.

From being rejected by my fifth-grade crush to being sexually abused by a family friend, I collected pain and carried it with me. When life became complicated, I curled up around it like an old, familiar blanket.

You can imagine what was brewing underneath that everyday mask.

Carrying my pain became a hobby.

Wallowing became an obsession.

No drugs. No sex. Just depression, emotional turmoil, and what felt like no way out.

The world told me that the things I wanted would make me happy.

The church told me many of those things would send me to hell.

And some of the things the church told me would make me part of God’s family left me feeling ostracized from the people my own age.

Both paths left me hollow.

Instead of talking things through or seeking wisdom, my teenage self turned her frustration inward.

Literally.

At seventeen, my self-destructive behavior reached a point where I was admitted to a care facility for my own safety.

By twenty, I was burned out.

Church life had crippled me. I never felt perfect enough for the pious members or interesting enough for the busybodies.

And I carried both messages with me, convincing myself that being miserable was somehow the Godly thing to do.

Then God sent me a surprise.

Six weeks into my marriage, I discovered I was pregnant.

So much for my plan to wait five years and then see what happened!

But the moment I knew that little bean was growing inside me, I loved him.

The pregnancy was rough.

What came afterward was a nightmare.

I didn’t learn that postpartum anxiety was a real thing until fifteen years after giving birth to my first child.

At the time, it felt like a hellish cycle.

I adored my son. I would gladly have died for him.

But somewhere in my mind, I had decided I didn’t deserve such a blessing.

Surely the cosmic boot was going to drop.

Surely God would allow something—or someone—to take my precious son away.

So I did what any terrified new mother would do.

I stood guard.

Unfortunately, I sacrificed two small things to do it:

Sleep and sanity.

My irrational fear fed my anxiety constantly. I became so consumed with protecting my son that I often went days without real rest.

Eventually, my body rebelled.

I would pass out or drift off and wake to my son screaming while I rocked a pillow I had dreamed was him.

I would walk down the hallway, and suddenly my legs would buckle as my exhausted mind shut down.

I was terrified.

Terrified of losing him.

Terrified of failing him.

Terrified of myself.

I prayed and begged, but I never abandoned my post.

Until one day.

I was sitting alone in the garage when the weight of all my failures came crashing down on me.

I couldn’t breathe.

The darkness felt so heavy I could almost touch it.

I was drowning inside my mind and couldn’t find a way out.

It felt as though death itself were breathing down my neck.

I couldn’t find the words to pray.

There was only one name.

Jesus.

I said it out loud.

And I broke.

I rested my head against the top of my washing machine and cried.

I asked God to help me.

I told Him everything I was afraid of.

I even told Him I was afraid of Him.

And then…

It was as if a breeze swept through that little garage.

I felt held.

Comforted.

Safe.

It felt as though Jesus Himself were reminding me that everything was going to be okay—that somehow, He was going to work it all out for good.

I believed Him.

Wholeheartedly.

Since that day in the garage, I’ve still battled depression.

But it has never again controlled me the way it did during those early months with my son.

And I give God all the glory for that.

When life becomes unbearable, He is always one step ahead, bringing encouragement through His Word or through a wise counselor.

Looking back, I sometimes feel as though my true conversion happened in that garage.

I gave my life to Him.

And, oh boy, the places He’s taken it.

Tenderly at first, He nurtured my little, budding faith with blessings, unexpected miracles, and the nourishment of Scripture.

He gently led me away from things that had once held me captive.

Movies, books, even music I once loved lost their appeal and fell away almost without thought.

My introverted ways changed as He brought women into my life who encouraged and comforted me along the way.

Even my relationship with my mother changed. I learned to value her not simply as my mom, but as my sister in Christ.

That doesn’t mean life became sunshine, rainbows, and happy endings.

Hard times still come.

Sometimes they’re followed by even harder times.

But the Lord has never let go of me. And when I’ve wandered, He has always called me back.

I’m grateful every day for His patience.

Thirty years after my baptism, you might think I’d be a mature, wise believer by now.

I’m not.

Too much of that time was spent wandering, doubting, and tormenting myself with what ifs and if onlys.

But God lovingly silences those questions.

He reminds me that I am exactly where He planned for me to be, at exactly the time He planned for me to be here.

I’ve still got a lot of growing up to do.

And I’m incredibly grateful that I’m still here to do it.

As Aslan says, “Further up and further in!”

That’s what life is about.

Getting closer to our Creator.

Knowing Him better.

And sharing Him with others.

Dear friend, grab God’s hand and hold on tightly.

The adventure is bumpy.

But the reward is worth it.

If you have questions about God the Father, Jesus Christ His Son, the Holy Spirit, or what it means to me to be a writer of faith, feel free to reach out. I’ll do my best to answer you—or help you find someone who can answer better than I can.

In the meantime, here are a few places to start:

• The Bible: God’s Word and His love letter to you. I personally enjoy the English Standard Version.
• YouVersion: A free Bible app with numerous translations and reading plans.
• Gerald Culley Videos: Short, thoughtful videos answering questions about Christianity, Scripture, Easter, and the origins of the Bible.
• Most importantly: Start with Jesus. Open the Word. Ask questions. Pray honestly. You don’t have to have everything figured out before you reach for Him.

God bless you, my friend.

And thank you for sitting down for coffee with me.

I’m glad you’re here.