Healing Behind Holy Walls

1. 🧠Starting the Conversation

   When I was in middle school, I felt something shift inside me. At first, I thought I was just growing up—but the more time passed, the more I realized it wasn’t just hormones or teenage drama. Something deeper was wrong.

   No 12-year-old should feel the way I did.
   I told my dad, who’s a preacher, “I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore. I’m not happy with who I am or how I feel.”
   He looked at me and said, “Yes you do. You’re just maturing. God’s not done with you yet.” 🙏🏽

   The following week, I opened up to my mom. Her response? She looked at me like I was crazy and said, “Therapy is for people who don’t have faith in God.”
   That moment stuck with me—like my pain wasn’t real, or worse, that it meant I was lacking in faith. 💔

2. 📋 Getting Help (Kinda)

   By the time I turned 18, I was tired of pretending I was okay. At a routine doctor’s visit, I filled out a mental health assessment. That simple form changed everything. The results suggested I might have Depression, Anxiety, and ADHD.

   My doctor referred me to a psychiatrist for an official diagnosis. For a second, I felt hope. Like maybe I wasn’t broken—maybe I could actually get help.

   But when I told my mom, my dad overheard. He stormed out of his room and blamed me. Told me it was my fault I felt this way. 😠 That moment took away the little courage I had left. I canceled the appointment. I gave up—for them.

3. 🕊️ Coping with a Loss

   Freshman year of high school, a close friend of mine died by suicide. 💔
   It was a Saturday morning. The day before, he’d been laughing in the hallway, telling everyone, “See you Monday.” But Monday never came.

   I found out through Snapchat. His best friends were posting tributes, and my heart sank. I was in shock. A few days later, a group of us organized a balloon release after school.

   When I got home, I told my parents about it—how I felt, how heavy it was. And while they offered sympathy, they also said things I’ll never forget: that what he did was a sin, that he was going to hell, that he was selfish. 😔
   I didn’t know how to respond. I just remember going to my room and crying in silence.

   Years later, when I turned 18, I got my first tattoo. A small semicolon on my wrist. It’s for him—and for me.
   A reminder to keep going. Because Lord knows I’ve stood on that same edge before. And somehow, I’m still here. 💪🏽🩵

   💬 Final Thoughts

   It’s hard growing up in a house where your pain is seen as weakness, or worse—faithlessness. I still believe in God. 🙌🏽 But I also believe He gives us tools like therapy, community, and medicine to help us heal.

   If you’re struggling, you’re not crazy. You’re not broken. You’re just human. 🫂
   And you don’t have to choose between your faith and your feelings. There’s room for both. 💛