I did not want to write another self-esteem piece, not another singleness piece, nor another piece about mental illness or race. I did not want to write about any of that. My intention was never to write at all. I live at the intersection of vulnerability, authenticity and prideful perfectionist self-preservation. Often times, I only want to share a story if it ends with “and then God rescued me, and now I am the perfect model of Christianity and you should be a Christian and trust God too because my life has been miraculously transformed.” This is not my story. At least not the whole of it.

Once in a while, I will make an Instagram or Facebook post, baring my heart. I always ended these posts in the same way: with a claim of a rescue, a redemption, a healing, that I wholly believed would happen but had not yet occurred. I would receive messages thanking me for my authenticity from Christians and non-Christians alike. But that was not my story. I would also sit in my room for days after, filled with anxiety and regret and cry because the truth was that I was still struggling. Every single time, I would ask God: “We’ve done this before; we’ve worked through this before, so WHY AM I LIKE THIS?”  This is my story.

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