I began to unravel during my third year on staff with The River Church. I experienced what I now recognize as a panic attack. It brought me to my knees, and though I managed to collect myself, pull up my bootstraps, and return to work, a few days later, I found myself struggling to get out of bed to face work. “I can’t do this anymore,” I thought to myself. It became clear that I was grappling with depression, a revelation made more poignant by my years of teaching on the subject.
Summoning every ounce of strength, I forced myself out of bed and into the office. I wore a facade of normalcy, but inside, I was far from okay. Interacting with people felt like an impossible challenge, a stark contrast to the description of me as a “pathological extrovert.” It was a sign of trouble when no bootstraps were left to pull up, a strategy that had served me for years but was failing me now.
Despite my conviction that reading the Bible more would expedite my recovery, the scriptures felt as comforting as a bucket of sand. I struggled to find the words to pray. The narrative of persistently trying, praying, and remaining faithful, with the expectation of eventual improvement, felt hollow. Instead, I felt a pervasive emptiness, as if I were in the “valley of the shadow of death.”
My younger sister suggested, “You need to be in the word!” (Yes, I tried that too.) Her message seemed to imply that my mental health issues were rooted in a lack of faith in God, insinuating that a deeper dive into the scriptures would make them disappear. Others would assert, “But you don’t look depressed.” Depression, however, wears many masks. Well-meaning friends offered platitudes like “The Lord won’t give you more than you can handle” or “The Lord will work all things together for good.” Such reassurances felt inadequate, especially when faced with the reality of sleepless nights and the looming specter of anxiety.
I sought the help of a therapist, and during our sessions, she inquired about how I expressed anger. My response was, “I don’t.” As an unknown author once noted, repressed anger is a significant aspect of the relationship between highly sensitive individuals and anger. It can manifest in various forms, including depression, people-pleasing behaviors, paranoia, and passive-aggressive tendencies. Repressed anger often originates from childhood trauma or social conditioning, silencing individuals and discouraging the expression of anger from a young age.
With considerable effort and practice, I learned to process and release my repressed anger. “I” statements proved immensely helpful in managing my anger and passive-aggressive tendencies.
Dear Ones, I had concealed my anger for years by hiding behind a “good boy” facade, smiling, and bowing obsequiously. After several therapy sessions, I questioned whether I could continue the ministry’s work. Therapy acts as a mirror, urging us to confront the barriers preventing us from living authentically.
Over the following year, tears flowed freely in my therapist’s office. As we delved deeper, I discovered that beneath the anger lay a complex tapestry of emotions—sadness, disappointment, helplessness, frustration, grief, anxiety, insecurity, shame, contempt, and jealousy.
I had buried most of my emotions because, firstly, they were neither valued nor tolerated in my family. Secondly, as a Christian “good boy,” donning a mask to conceal these negative emotions became my coping mechanism to control how others perceived me. I believe that a Christian should always exude the joy of the Lord; anything less conveys imperfection.
Through extensive therapy spanning five-plus years and connecting with empathetic men who bore witness to my painful past, I began to feel the dark clouds dissipate, allowing the return of joy I hadn’t experienced in years.
During this journey, I found myself shaking my fist at God, yelling at Him, throwing my Bible in frustration, begging Him to alleviate my pain, and even contemplating walking away from Christianity. The ebb and flow of the healing journey reflected moments of both neurosis and redemption.
During therapy sessions, I alternated between discussing the disappointments in my childhood parenting and recounting instances of lacking emotional regulation when I was in distress. I was often told to stop crying and feeling without any curious, attuned inquiry from a parent about what was wrong.
Negative parenting encompasses neglectful or harmful actions and behaviors that can impact a child’s development and mental well-being, often extending into adulthood. While some steps may be deliberate, parents may not realize the lasting effects of their behaviors or lack thereof on their children.
A compassionate Russian Orthodox friend proved invaluable during my moments of despair. He introduced me to mindfulness practices, aiming to facilitate a deeper connection with the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, fostering significant healing.
An unknown author noted that mindfulness practices alter the neural connections in the brain. Daily engagement in mindfulness induces a specific brain state, gradually transforming it into a lasting trait. Research indicates that these practices affect the limbic areas and various regions of the brain, contributing to the renewal of the mind.
Each day, I devote 15 minutes to sitting in my Ikea Poang chair, slowing my breathing, and engaging in mindful meditation. More often than not, I emerge regulated, content, centered, and focused.
These newfound skills strengthened my relationship with God the Father and empowered my other relationships. However, I realized I needed more than individual practices; I needed the support of the Body of Christ. I sought out men who could empathize with my pain, both past and present, men who were self-aware of their need for healing. Men who weren’t vague, guarded, and veiled in sharing their own pain and suffering. We formed a bond akin to a band of brothers, providing profound mutual affection.
During my darkest days, these friends would arrive unannounced at my door. Clad in the same sweatpants and sweatshirt I had worn for several days, unkempt hair, and unwashed, they would coax me out of isolation—whether for a movie, a walk, a meal, or my favorite, a drive to Half Moon Bay.
Psalm 34:18 declares, “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
In the valley, God taught me lessons I could never have learned on the mountaintop. He demonstrated that I was never truly isolated, even when I felt utterly alone. He desired to reveal aspects of Himself that I might have otherwise overlooked.
You are not alone. You are not forsaken or orphaned. If you find yourself in a season of depression, please know that there are people who care, ready to demonstrate that you are loved and that you matter.
As David proclaimed in Psalm 23, “I will fear no evil, for you are with me…”
May you be blessed with the awareness of “you are with me” that David possessed in the valley of the shadow of death.