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&nbsp;There are moments in life when the words written on a medical chart feel louder than your own name. Severe depression. Anxiety. PTSD. Psychosis. Bipolar disorder. Dissociative identity disorder. Each one carries its own history, its own symptoms, its own battles. And when they’re all stacked together, it can feel like you’re being asked to climb a mountain with a backpack full of bricks.&nbsp;If that’s you, take a breath. You’re not a list of diagnoses. You’re a person who has survived things most people will never understand.This is for you. &nbsp;You Are Not Broken — You Are Carrying Too Much Alone&nbsp;People often talk about mental health as if it’s a character flaw or a personal failure. But the truth is simpler and far more compassionate: your mind has been trying to protect you, often in ways that don’t feel protective at all.&nbsp;Depression isn’t laziness — it’s exhaustion from fighting battles no one sees. Anxiety isn’t weakness — it’s your nervous system stuck in survival mode. &nbsp;PTSD isn’t overreacting — it’s your body remembering what you wish you could forget. Psychosis isn’t “crazy” — it’s your brain sending signals that feel real even when they aren’t. &nbsp;Bipolar disorder isn’t instability — it’s your emotions running at a volume most people never experience. Dissociative identity disorder isn’t “split personalities” — it’s a brilliant, painful survival strategy your mind created to endure what no one should have had to endure. None of this makes you less human. If anything, it proves how hard you’ve fought to stay alive. &nbsp;Your Diagnoses Don’t Tell the Whole Story&nbsp;A diagnosis can explain what’s happening, but it can’t explain you.&nbsp;It can’t tell the story of the days you got out of bed when your body felt like concrete. It can’t measure the courage it takes to keep going when your mind is loud and confusing. It can’t capture the tenderness you still show others even when you feel empty yourself. It can’t record the moments you chose to stay when everything in you wanted to disappear.&nbsp;You are more than the symptoms you manage. You are more than the labels you’ve been given. You are a whole person with a whole story — and your story is still unfolding. &nbsp;It’s Okay to Need HelpNeeding support doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.People with complex mental health conditions often feel like they have to apologize for existing, for struggling, for needing more than others. But you don’t have to apologize for being overwhelmed. You don’t have to apologize for having limits. You don’t have to apologize for needing people.&nbsp;You deserve care. You deserve treatment that honors your dignity. You deserve professionals who listen and take you seriously. You deserve a support system that doesn’t minimize your pain or shame your symptoms.&nbsp;Asking for help is not giving up — it’s choosing to keep going. &nbsp;You Are Allowed to Have Hope&nbsp;Hope doesn’t always look like sunshine and breakthroughs. Sometimes hope is quieter:getting through one more hour taking your medication even when you’re tired of it showing up to therapy telling the truth about how you feel letting someone sit with you in the dark choosing not to hurt yourself even when the thoughts are loud believing that tomorrow might be a little less heavy Hope is not a feeling. It’s a decision — one you’ve already made more times than you realize. You Are Still Here, and That MattersYou’ve survived things that could have ended your story. You’ve lived through nights that felt impossible. You’ve carried pain that would have crushed someone else. And yet, here you are — breathing, trying, fighting, hoping.&nbsp;That is not failure. That is not weakness. That is strength in its rawest, most honest form.&nbsp;Your diagnoses may shape your journey, but they do not define your worth. You are not your symptoms. You are not your trauma. You are not your darkest moments.&nbsp;You are a human being with a future worth fighting for.&nbsp;And you don’t have to walk it alone.

When Your Diagnoses Feel Heavier Than You Can Hold

Torn paper head and the words fear stress and anxiety. Represents mental health struggles and emotional distress.

Anxiety is often described as a “chemical imbalance,” as if the whole experience can be reduced to misfiring neurons or low serotonin. But that explanation is far too small for what people actually carry. Anxiety isn’t just a malfunction in the brain—it’s a reaction to life.For many, anxiety is the body remembering what the mind has tried to forget. It’s the echo of past circumstances that were overwhelming, unsafe, or unpredictable. The nervous system learned to stay alert because, at one point, it had to. In that sense, anxiety is not a flaw—it’s evidence of survival.For others, anxiety rises from present pressures: too much responsibility, too little support, chronic uncertainty, or environments that demand more than a person can reasonably give. The body responds to these realities with vigilance, tension, and racing thoughts because it’s trying to protect us.Chemistry plays a role, of course. But chemistry is shaped by story. The brain is not separate from a person’s history, relationships, losses, or environment. Anxiety is often the body’s way of saying, “Something happened,” or “Something is happening,” and it needs to be honored, not dismissed.When we treat anxiety as only a chemical issue, we risk ignoring the deeper truth: people are responding to real wounds, real stress, and real experiences. Healing often begins not with correcting brain chemistry, but with understanding the story behind the symptoms—listening to what the body has been trying to say.Anxiety is not weakness. It’s not failure. It’s a human response to a human life. If you want, I can help you shape this into:a shorter social‑media post a longer article or Porch Light reflection a version that connects explicitly to faith, Scripture, or spiritual formation a version written for men’s groups or pastoral care

Anxiety Is More Than Chemistry

Loneliness shows up in the counseling room more often than almost anything else—but it rarely walks in by name. It hides behind symptoms: anxiety, irritability, exhaustion, spiritual numbness, relational withdrawal. Many Christians assume that if they were “doing faith right,” they wouldn’t feel this way. So instead of naming loneliness, they blame themselves.But loneliness isn’t a moral failure. It’s a human signal. It tells us something important about our emotional and spiritual landscape:Where connection has been lost Where wounds haven’t been tended Where our souls are asking for presence, not performance For many believers, loneliness becomes especially confusing because it shows up inside the very places where they expected to feel most connected—church, small groups, friendships, even marriage. When community is talked about more than practiced, people begin to wonder if they’re the only ones who feel unseen.They’re not.Loneliness grows in the spaces where we feel misunderstood, minimized, or spiritually “out of sync” with the people around us. It grows when we carry burdens we don’t feel safe to share. It grows when we’ve been hurt and haven’t found a place to heal.But here’s the truth I want every client to hear: Loneliness is not a verdict. It’s an invitation.It invites us to slow down and pay attention. It invites us to explore what connection would look like if it were safe, mutual, and honest. It invites us to rebuild—not by pretending we’re fine, but by telling the truth about where we are.If you’re carrying loneliness today, it doesn’t mean you’re weak or faithless. It means you’re human. And healing begins when we name it, sit with it, and learn how to move toward connection in ways that honor your story and your pace.You don’t have to navigate that journey alone. Square 1 exists for exactly this kind of work—steady, compassionate, practical steps toward emotional and spiritual wholeness.

The Hidden Loneliness of the Christian Life

IntroductionTrauma is not just something that happens in the mind. It is something that happens in the body. Long after the event is over, the body keeps a record—through tension, shutdown, pain, or sudden fear. These are often called body memories.When we place this understanding next to Paul’s “thorn in the flesh” in 2 Corinthians 12, a deeper truth emerges: the body carries wounds that do not simply disappear, and God meets us right there.This is not theoretical for me. I carry my own wounds from a beating I survived years ago. There is no physical evidence left—no scars, no bruises, nothing you could point to. But the pain is still real. My body remembers what my skin no longer shows.And I’m not the only one. Someone I care for deeply carries a sharp, recurring pain just beneath the sternum—a place where fear and shame once struck her like a blow. There is no visible injury there either. But the body remembers what the world cannot see. 1. Trauma Is Embodied—And So Was Paul’s ThornPaul calls it a thorn in the flesh. Not a thorn in his thoughts. Not a thorn in his theology. A thorn in his body.I understand that. My own body still reacts in the places where I was struck. And I’ve watched another person’s body tighten under the sternum in the exact spot where terror once lived. No mark. No bruise. But the pain is precise, persistent, and honest.This is exactly how body memories work. The parasympathetic nervous system stores patterns of overwhelm in specific places. The body remembers even when the skin forgets. 2. Both Are Wounds That Don’t Go Away EasilyPaul says he pleaded with the Lord three times for the thorn to be removed. It remained.I have prayed the same prayers. So has the person whose sternum still aches when old fear rises. “Take this pain away.” “Let my body forget.” “Let this be over.”But the body does not always release what it learned in a moment of terror. Not because we lack faith. Not because we are weak. But because the nervous system did exactly what it had to do to keep us alive.Paul’s thorn, my own body memories, and that sternum-deep ache all remind us: some wounds stay with us longer than we want. 3. Both Become Places Where God Meets UsPaul hears Jesus say: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”Jesus does not say, “You should be over this.” He does not say, “If you had more faith, this would be gone.”He says, “My grace is enough for you right here.”I have learned that God meets me in the places where my body still hurts. And I have watched God meet someone else in the place beneath her sternum where fear still echoes. Not by erasing the pain, but by sitting with us in it. By steadying the breath. By reminding the body that the danger is over, even if it hasn’t fully caught up.The thorn becomes a meeting place. So do our wounds. 4. Both Reveal That Weakness Is Not FailurePaul says he will “boast in his weakness” because it reveals Christ’s strength.My lingering pain is not a sign of spiritual immaturity. Nor is the sternum-deep ache carried by the one I walk alongside. These pains are signs of what we survived.The absence of scars does not mean the harm wasn’t real. The body remembers what the skin no longer shows.Both Paul’s thorn and our body memories say: “This is where I was hurt. This is where I still need grace.”Weakness becomes witness. 5. Both Point Toward Slow, Relational HealingPaul’s thorn shaped his humility and dependence.My own healing has been slow and relational— co‑regulation, breath, grounding, safe people, and time.And I’ve watched the same slow healing unfold in someone whose sternum still tightens when old terror stirs. Body memories don’t vanish on command. They soften through presence. They loosen through safety. They heal through connection.Neither Paul’s thorn nor our own wounds offer a quick fix. Both offer a path of transformation. Conclusion: The Thorn, the Nervous System, and the Wounds That RemainWhen we place Paul’s thorn alongside the science of body memories—and alongside the wounds we ourselves carry—we see a fuller picture of how God works with human beings:God does not shame the body. God does not rush healing. God does not demand that wounds vanish. God meets us in the very places that still hurt. Paul’s thorn, the body’s memories, my own lingering pain, and that sternum-deep ache all teach the same truth: Grace does not wait for the wound to disappear. Grace meets us in the wound and stays.

Paul’s Thorn, Body Memories, and the Wounds That Leave No Marks

<figure id="figure-kpnv8ky4qvmkdzexwg"><img id="kpnv8ky4qvmkdzexwg" src="https://cdn.durable.co/profile/20miBtQ6FTN5MFk9fXK40nFGhjfLu4i4to4V025BrVyXsrCfbikHs3gb2AUnfck9.png" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: 0% 50%;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionX="0%" data-positionY="50%" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure>There are griefs that defy clean language. Some sorrows sit in the chest like a stone — too heavy to lift, too sacred to ignore. I think of the families who carry the impossible truth that one child’s heart stopped, and in that stopping, another child’s life was extended. It is a grief braided with mercy, a mercy braided with grief. There is no way to hold one strand without touching the other.As a chaplain, I have learned that this kind of sorrow doesn’t ask for explanations. It asks for presence. It asks for someone willing to stand in the doorway between loss and life, honoring the child who is gone and blessing the child who now breathes because of that final gift. It is holy ground — the kind where you take your shoes off not out of ritual, but because the weight of love demands it.In these moments, we do not offer answers. We offer witness. We hold space for the parents who mourn and the parents who rejoice, sometimes in the same room, sometimes in the same breath. And we trust that God is somehow present in the tangle — not to tidy it, but to sit with us in it.

The Sorrow That Holds Two Children

Coping, Shame, and the Invitation to PresenceAbstractThis paper explores the phenomenon of numbing and disconnecting behaviors as coping strategies in response to emotional pain and shame. It examines the appeal of these behaviors, their hidden costs, and the impact of public shame when individuals are called out in front of others. The study concludes with an invitation to presence as a pathway toward healing and wholeness.IntroductionEmotional pain often drives individuals to seek relief through numbing or disconnecting behaviors. These strategies provide temporary comfort but can hinder long-term healing. In addition to private struggles, the experience of public shame—being exposed or called out in front of others—intensifies the desire to disconnect. This paper examines these dynamics and offers reflections on the importance of presence.The Appeal of NumbingNumbing behaviors can take many forms, including self-injury, daydreaming, and dissociation. These actions often trigger the release of endorphins, natural chemicals that ease pain and elevate mood. The immediate reward is a fleeting sense of control and relief. The appeal lies in this temporary escape from overwhelming emotions.The Hidden CostsWhile numbing offers short-term comfort, it carries significant long-term consequences:Self-injury leaves physical and emotional scars that deepen suffering. Daydreaming can become habitual, preventing engagement with reality. Dissociation blurs the edges of life, distancing individuals from relationships and emotions. These behaviors are survival strategies, often rooted in trauma or grief. Yet survival is not the same as living. The cost of disconnecting is the loss of presence—the very place where healing begins.The Weight of ShameBeyond private coping, public shame adds another layer of pain. Being called out in front of others magnifies vulnerability and reinforces the instinct to disconnect. Shame thrives in exposure, driving individuals deeper into numbing behaviors. However, naming shame breaks its silence. When met with compassion rather than condemnation, the cycle of escape can begin to loosen.The Invitation to PresencePresence is the soil where healing takes root. Remaining present means choosing to feel rather than flee, allowing emotions to surface and trusting they can be carried. Presence invites connection—with self, with others, and with God. It is the opposite of numbing: it is living fully, even in the storm.Practical Steps Toward PresenceAwareness: Recognize numbing behaviors, especially in moments of shame. Gentle Alternatives: Practice soothing strategies such as breathing, journaling, prayer, or companionship. Community: Seek trusted relationships that provide grounding and support. Faith Practices: Engage Scripture, prayer, and worship to invite God’s presence into pain. Reflection QuestionsWhat numbing behaviors feel most familiar? How have these strategies helped in the short term? What costs have they carried over time? How has public shame shaped the desire to disconnect? What might it look like to remain present, even when it hurts? Where can support and companionship be found in this journey? ConclusionNumbing and disconnecting are understandable responses to pain and shame. They are survival strategies, not signs of weakness. Yet survival is not the same as living. Presence is where healing begins. By naming these patterns, reflecting honestly, and choosing gentle alternatives, individuals can move toward wholeness—living fully in the now, even when shame tries to silence the soul.

Numbing and Disconnecting:

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