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Many people are raised to believe that faith can fix everything.
Feeling anxious? Pray harder.
Feeling depressed? Cast it out.
Feeling numb, broken, or unable to get out of bed? Clearly, you’re under spiritual attack — get in the Word and stay there.
That was the language I heard in church spaces: suffering was a test of spiritual strength, and mental illness was a sign that you weren’t trying hard enough to trust God.
So for years, I tried harder. I journaled. I repented. I served more. I hid the ache behind a spiritual mask and hoped no one would see how lost I felt — even in worship, even in leadership, even in prayer.
Because I believed what I had been told: If I just had more faith, I’d feel better.
But I didn’t feel better.
I felt worse.
The Invisible Battle
Depression doesn’t always look like tears. Sometimes it looks like detachment, isolation, or hyper-functioning. Anxiety can show up in a perfectly planned calendar. Trauma can wear a Sunday smile.
I didn’t know that then.
So many people can't breathe. They are drowning inside a body that keeps showing up to small group, smiling through sermons, and whispering “I’m fine” through gritted teeth.
Eventually, you can't keep pretending. Exhaustion sets in from trying to pray away something that isn’t budging. Not because God wasn’t real — but because healing doesn’t always come the way we expect.
When the Church Turned Away
When Christians mention therapy in a church setting, it is almost always met with concern especially if it is not a Christian counselor you are seeking.
"Be careful. That’s worldly wisdom."
"You don’t need a psychiatrist. You need to trust Jesus."
"Those medications are dangerous. Don’t let the enemy get a foothold."
No one means harm. They genuinely believe they are protecting you. But in doing so, they push people deeper into shame — as if their struggle was proof that they didn’t love God enough. This type of thinking can wreck your soul.
So you start to believe them. Maybe this pain was my fault. Maybe I was spiritually defective.
But somewhere deep inside, another voice stirred — a quieter, more compassionate voice that sounded more like God than any sermon.
“You’re not broken. You’re hurting. And help is not a betrayal of Me.”
The Day I Spoke to a Psychiatrist
I remember feeling lost. Like my faith had failed but at the same time I knew I needed help. The trauma was too much, the anxiety was relentless, the depression ever present. I felt like I was stepping out of line with everything I had been taught. And the worst part - I was alone. No support. Too afraid to tell anyone. Especially not my church family.
But that appointment — that act of courage and self-kindness — saved my life.
I sat across from a doctor who didn’t try to fix me with Bible verses. Who didn’t shame me for feeling heavy. Who simply listened, affirmed my symptoms, and gently suggested options for relief.
For the first time, I heard the words:
"What you have been through is life altering."
And then:
"We can help."
Medication didn’t erase my pain. But it gave me enough oxygen to breathe again. Enough clarity to engage in therapy. Enough peace to pray again — not out of desperation, but from a place of connection.
Healing Isn’t Either/Or — It’s Both/And
I still believe in prayer. I still believe in miracles. But I also believe that God can work through medication, science, and the wisdom of trained professionals. I believe the God who knit us together (Psalm 139:13-14) is not threatened by serotonin or support groups.
Jesus didn’t shame the sick. He healed them. And sometimes healing came through mud and spit — ordinary things made holy by His touch.
Therapy and medication can be holy, too.
A New Theology of Mental Health
We need a better theology — one that includes the full spectrum of human experience. One that doesn’t reduce mental illness to a faith issue. One that sees depression not as a defect, but as a form of suffering worthy of compassion, care, and intervention.
Let’s be clear: Taking medication doesn’t mean you’ve given up on God. It means you’ve stopped abandoning yourself.
Final Thoughts
If you’re in the place I was — ashamed, anxious, praying harder but feeling worse — let me say this to you plainly:
You are not failing.
You are not weak.
You are not alone.
And there is no shame in seeking help.
God isn’t disappointed in your decision to get better.
He may, in fact, be in it.
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