Something desperately needed to change. Joy had been dripping away like a leaky faucet. Motherhood felt overwhelming, my marriage wasn’t where I wanted it to be, and one of my closest friendships had ended on an ugly note. Any genuine self-disclosure on my part could unleash a flood of tears, so I settled for a safe and hollow response whenever asked, “How are you?” “Fine.”
Then, during a course, I found myself unexpectedly crying over a compassionate response to my undiagnosed postpartum depression nearly ten years ago. That moment cracked something open. I began to see how much I had buried, avoiding rather than facing the realities of my own life. My relationship with God felt clouded, my relationship with myself jaded, and my relationship with others conflicted. But denying myself the right to process my own experiences meant I couldn’t be fully there for others either—not exactly a helpful place for a parent or a spouse.
I needed help.
At my first therapy session, I wept. It was surprising but also a relief to finally let pain have a witness. Things were going well until my counsellor suggested psychological testing and recommended that I see a psychiatrist. A psychiatrist? No way. I wasn’t crazy! Despite my professional training, I was flooded with shame. I could fix this myself, right? Just walk more, get some sunshine, boost serotonin?
My therapist didn’t take no for an answer. She explained that my neural pathways had been firing in the same patterns for too long, medication could help create new ones, and therapy would reinforce them. Begrudgingly, I went.
The psychiatrist confirmed it—undiagnosed postpartum depression could cause long-term mood disturbances. The psychological testing also revealed, in layman’s terms, chronic low mood—something that can quietly weigh on a person for years. Though the diagnosis didn’t fully capture my experience, the doctor assured me that antidepressants would help.
And they did. A couple of weeks in, my mood stabilised. I could have conversations without the ever-present threat of tears. Mornings were no longer an uphill battle. Without the weight of a generalised low mood pressing down on me, I could finally begin to tackle the real source of my distress—faulty thoughts and beliefs. Therapy helped me recognise how deeply ingrained my irrational beliefs were. But lasting change doesn’t just come from medication or counselling—it comes from learning to renew my mind (Romans 12:2) and replacing lies with God’s truth.
As therapy progressed, I started to notice God’s continual presence in a way I hadn’t before. When I came face to face with a truth that I had spent years avoiding, I thought I would sink, but then I saw it: His everlasting arms carrying me (Deut. 33:27). When truth brought another fresh wave of pain, I heard His reassurance: Do not be fear, for I am with you. I will never leave you (Deut. 31:6). These familiar verses were no longer just words; they were real.
The Black Blotch
For years, I carried guilt like a stain that wouldn’t wash out. It reminded me of a story I heard about a little boy named Almanzo, who flung a brush full of black polish at his sister. He missed, but the brush splattered across the pristine wallpaper in his mother’s beautiful parlour. The boy knew he deserved punishment. He lost his appetite, dreading the inevitable moment when his parents would discover the stain.
One day, company came over, and the parlour door was opened. He waited for the horrified gasp… but it never came. The big black blotch was gone. Later, close inspection revealed that someone had carefully cut out a piece of wallpaper and patched over the stain so perfectly that no one would ever know it had been there.
For so long, I had been carrying my own black blotches—guilt over failures, fear of rejection, and the weight of perfectionism. When someone threw a fresh blotch at me, I didn’t let it fall to the ground. I picked it up and pinned it to myself. Over time, I collected more and more of the blotches, allowing them to define me—until I finally realised I didn’t have to carry them anymore.
God hadn’t just patched over my guilt—He had completely erased it.
“Although my sins are like scarlet, my conscience as red as crimson, yet my faith and the blood of my dear Saviour make them white as snow” (Isaiah:18).
I let go of the impossible quest for perfection, acknowledging that only God is perfect. When guilt comes knocking, I no longer answer.
I love these words from Isaiah 53:4-5
“Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.”
Most Christians would acknowledge that Jesus died for their sin, but look! He also died for our pain. Jesus cares about our suffering, our burdens, our broken places.
If you find yourself weighed down today, will you reach out for help? God died for it all, our sin and our suffering—and we don’t have to run from either. We can run to Him with both. If you need a travel companion on this journey, there are trained professionals who can help. The road may be difficult, but it is worth it.
As Tolkien wrote,
“Oft hope is born when all is forlorn.”
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