“Lea, it’s time to go back to counseling,” a loving friend suggests.
Six months have passed since our house fire, and we are facing the peak of Douglas’s addiction. Just a week ago, we dropped Douglas off on New Year’s Eve at his second rehab after he relapsed on Christmas Eve in Cabo, of all places. I had just finished telling my friend of my new diagnosis of bladder spasms that the doctor thinks are from anxiety and stress.
Really? Bladder Spasms?
Never in my life have I felt such deep pain and sorrow. Not only is the emotional weight unbearable, but the physical toll is undeniable. Grief and trauma wreak havoc on my body and mind. Honestly, there are days I didn’t know how I’d make it through the except by the grace of God. Yet, no one warned me of the physical symptoms that come from grief and anxiety.
But maybe you do know.
Maybe you’ve felt it too—the way grief settles into your bones, making even the simplest tasks feel impossible. Similarly, anxiety tightens in your chest, stealing your breath when you least expect it. No one told me that loss doesn’t just break your heart—it weaves itself into your body, your thoughts, your very being.
I used to think grief was just sadness. Eventually, I realized it’s much more than that. It’s exhaustion, physical pain, and a slow unraveling of everything familiar. Therefore, when my friend tells me to go back to counseling, I knew deep down she was right.
But what do you do when you’re too weary to take the next step?
The following week, I satt in the counselor’s office mid-morning, gripping a lukewarm cup of coffee, exhausted on another level.
The Christian Stigma Around Counseling and Medication
Yet, the church has an unspoken weight regarding counseling, and an even heavier weight when medication enters the conversation. Instead of open discussions, churches hand us books that promise Three Steps to Peace or How to Have a New Kid by Friday! Furthermore, church leaders tell us to pray harder, believe more, and claim victory. And yet, I’m sitting in a counselor’s chair, taking tiny white pills that help my mind find rest.
But what about my prayers?
What about the nights I begged God to heal, to restore, to fix? Why, despite my faith, did it feel like my prayers were bouncing off the ceiling, unheard and unanswered? Had I failed as a Christian? Had I missed some crucial step in the formula of faith?
The truth is, God never promised us a life without suffering. In fact, He assured us that trouble would come. However, somewhere along the way, we started believing that faith should protect us from hardship—that if we just did everything right, pain wouldn’t touch us.
What if we stopped all the nonsense of shaming people and started seeing medication for mental health as support tools, rather than quick-fix solutions? Just as doctors suggest lifestyle changes when prescribing cholesterol or diabetes medication, mental health medications can aid in the healing process. In my case, they cleared my mind, changing the internal dialogue from negative to positive and lifting the fog.
Linda, my counselor, sees the burden weighing on my shoulders as I sink onto the couch; she asks, “How are you?”
Oh, the dreaded question.
Why Is It So Hard to Answer ‘How Are You?’
Every person who has walked through hardship knows how loaded those three little words can be. Immediately, an internal dialogue begins. How do I answer that? Do I give the expected “I’m fine,” or dare I be honest?
However, I chose honesty. By this point, I feel exhausted from pretending, weary from carrying the weight of appearances, and drained from hiding Douglas’s addiction from most of our friends and family. Not to mention the shame that keeps me wearing the “I’m fine” mask as my son continues to grapple with addiction. “I’m fine” simply sometimes feels safer than the raw vulnerability of standing exposed in our new reality.
But here’s the thing: The shame of seeking counseling and medication as a Christian kept me trapped behind a mask.
That mask became a refuge, a shield against uncomfortable silence, against the weight of being a parent with a struggling child.
Maybe you’ve worn a mask too. Maybe you’re hiding behind one now?
Perhaps you’ve smiled when your heart breaks, answering “good” despite everything around you crumbling. Likewise, maybe you’ve felt the shame of a burden too heavy to carry alone.
While this may be true, you are not alone. And maybe, just maybe, today is the day you let someone in.
God’s Truth About Shame and Healing
As I pour out my heart in that office, my counselor responds with, “Oh Lea, you’re wrapped in shame, and that is not from God.”
Her words settle deep into my soul, cutting through the heaviness I’ve carried for far too long. Shame is not from God. Yet, I had let it define me. Why, for so long, had I worn it like a second skin, believing the lie that my pain, my struggles, my son’s addiction were marks of my failure?
Tears spill over as I sit with the truth—God never called me to carry this weight. He never asked me to bear it alone.
Maybe you need to hear that today, too. Whatever shame has wrapped itself around you, whatever whispers of failure or unworthiness have taken root in your heart—know this: They are not from God.
Instead, He calls you beloved. He invites you to lay it down, step into the light, and breathe freely again.
And so, in that quiet office, I take my first shaky breath toward freedom.
Maybe today, you can too.
If this post spoke to you, you’ll love my book: “The Freedom to Feel Finding God in the Midst of Grief and Trauma.” Have you ever struggled with the stigma of mental health in the church? Let’s break the silence together.
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