I’ve started and deleted more blog posts than I can count over these last few months. Not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I was afraid that saying it would leave me exposed—vulnerable to judgment.
Every time I tried to show up honestly, I heard that familiar whisper: “You should be past this by now.”
So I closed the tabs. Trashed the drafts. Backed off.
The truth is, I feel stuck. Like I’ve stumbled back to square one of my healing journey. The weight of old emotions—of not being enough, spiritually or otherwise—is pressing down again. It feels like all the progress I made has been undone, like I’m starting from scratch. And honestly, it hurts.
I know better. I know healing isn’t linear. Still, that knowledge doesn’t quiet the storm inside.
There’s a constant hum of panic beneath the surface,anxiety that won’t let up and a dread I can’t explain. It’s as if something terrible is coming, even when everything around me is still. Breathing feels difficult. My thoughts are cloudy. Prayer feels distant, and I’m crumbling under the pressure of my own thoughts and expectations.
Yet deep down, I still know I’m called to something greater.
That realization is both comforting and terrifying. How can there be purpose tied to someone who feels this broken? I want to feel empowered. I want to feel certain that God is bigger than these thoughts. Lately though, I’ve felt small. Unequipped. Exhausted. Spiritually disconnected. The strength I used to carry seems stuck in a season I thought I already healed from.
So I did something I haven’t done in a while—I made a therapy appointment.
After going through the process of setting up the appointment, I spiraled a bit. I told myself I was failing. I started to wonder if the issue wasn’t the panic or the pressure or the past—maybe the issue was just… me.
That thought sits heavy. It’s familiar. It’s dangerous.
Right now, I’m trying to hold on to this: making space to heal—even again—isn’t failure. It’s not weakness. It’s not a setback. It’s an act of faith. A decision to say, “I don’t feel okay, but I believe there’s more than this.”
Even when belief feels small, it’s still enough to move forward.
I’ve done this work before. I’ve sat in therapy. I’ve wrestled with God. I’ve written the hard truths and trusted that someone out there would read them and not look away. So even if this moment feels like square one, I know it isn’t. It can’t be, because I’m not the same version of myself who first stood here.
This time, I recognize the difference between being stuck and choosing to pause. I know how to breathe through the panic instead of being consumed by it. I’ve learned to name what hurts, to ask for help without shame, and to trust that healing doesn’t always look like progress—it often looks like returning with more wisdom, softness, and self-compassion.
Maybe this is the place where I show up with deeper honesty. Where I breathe slower, cry louder, pray more vulnerably, and allow God to meet me in the rawest parts of myself again. Maybe this is where I learn to trust again—differently, more intentionally. Where I pick up familiar tools with fresh hands and uncover new ones I didn’t realize I needed.
Reentering therapy doesn’t have to mean I’m broken beyond repair. It could mean I’m brave enough to keep going. This might not be a repeat—it might be a deepening. Perhaps healing isn’t something I need to earn. Perhaps it’s something I need to allow. This moment isn’t a setback. It might be sacred space.
I’m still learning that God isn’t waiting for me to be whole to meet me, He’s already here, in the breaking and the becoming.
There’s no neat bow to tie this up with. I’m still here—in the fog and in the fight. If you’re here too—if you’ve found yourself questioning your progress, your worth, your strength—I want you to know this:
You are not the problem.
Your healing isn’t on a deadline.
You are not alone.
Writings on My Heart 