Faith In The Darkness Of Depression.

It’s hard to talk about depression—or any kind of mental health struggle—when you’re a Christian, isn’t it? I used to think maybe it was just me—how I was raised, what I was taught. The thought of opening up felt like an admission that I lacked faith, that I wasn’t believing hard enough to be healed.

Instead of feeling embraced, I often felt avoided. As if reaching out was a no-go zone for others, a line they couldn’t cross. And I get it. There’s an uneasiness about stepping into someone else’s darkness. We work so hard to avoid it in our own lives, so it can feel overwhelming to lean into someone else’s.

I once felt that way too.

Here’s the thing about depression: it’s not always obvious. Sometimes it sneaks in through a side door, building slowly over time, until you find yourself falling into a pit you didn’t even know was there. That’s exactly what happened to me.

I’ve wrestled with milder versions of depression before. When you’ve had an upbringing marked by instability and trauma, it’s almost inevitable. I’ve always been a deeply feeling person—writing and thinking in ways that plumb the depths—and there have been times when that has pulled me under. But somehow, in the past, I always managed to pull myself out within a shorter time.

This last time, though, was different.

This time, it was as though the backpack broke. You know that feeling when life piles on just one thing too many, and you’re suddenly crushed under the weight? That’s what happened to me. And I didn’t just get to climb out quickly this time. No, I had to walk through it—step by painful step—until I found my way back to the light.

It started with physical pain. Chronic, unrelenting pain that wore me down in ways I didn’t realize at first. Living with fibromyalgia and arthritis is exhausting, not just for the body but for the soul. Then came the anxiety, like a low hum of fear that grew louder with each passing day. I didn’t realize it was dragging me down, slowly but surely. And then, before I knew it, I was in the grip of full-blown depression.

For me, I could barely find the strength to wash my hair, get out of my pajamas, or be in public. Holding conversations or truly listening felt impossible. The thoughts were a 24/7 battle. I carried this overwhelming shame, afraid my husband would see me differently—that I was failing my children. Words can’t describe how amazing my little family unit was through it all, but the whole time, I felt as if I had let them down.

Their Christian wife and mama wasn’t looking like the strong tower they were used to seeing. But in time, I realized it also showed them something deeply human: I was fragile. I wasn’t immune to life.

But I was braver this time.

I reached out to so many people—church people, friends—begging for someone to pray with me, to sit with me, to simply show up. But no one came.

No one showed up.

Oh, my heart broke even more. The rejection only deepened the darkness, and I found myself wrestling not just with my pain but with a deep sense of abandonment. I can’t tell you what that kind of rejection feels like or how it impacts the healing process.

It was a long, hard road out. There were so many mornings I didn’t even want to wake up—let alone fight through another day of sadness, heaviness, and the lies screaming in my mind. Some days, it felt like all I could do was breathe.

Am I still battling depression?

Yes and no.

Yes, because I think it’s always going to be something I need to stay on top of. I’ve learned to regulate my emotions and not live by them. I pay attention to the signs and take steps to keep myself grounded.

And no, because I’ve found light again. I’m finally able to enjoy each day, to smile and laugh, and to show up for myself and my family. God used His Word and the resources He placed in my life to remind me not to fear and to trust Him as my refuge.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. – Psalm 34:18

Now, I look back and see the progress I’ve made—even the smallest steps—and I celebrate them. I still have hard days where one thing can almost send me spiraling into panic, making me fear it’s going to happen again. But now I remind myself: It’s okay to have a bad day. Tomorrow is a new one.

I allow myself to rest.

But like I’ve said to so many, it’s a journey. And we can either see the lessons God wants to teach us through it or let the pain harden us. I’ve chosen to learn, to press in, and to let Him mold me in the process.

Sharing my story—opening up about my battle—has drawn people to my table. People who’ve whispered, “Me too.” It’s created a space for others to share their own stories and begin their own healing journeys. I’ve been able to offer resources that helped me heal, and I’ve seen just how vital it is for us to have these conversations.

Because here’s what I’ve noticed: the secular world doesn’t hide their struggles. They talk about them—sometimes in ways that don’t always lead to healing but that at least acknowledge their humanity. Christians, on the other hand, are often paralyzed by fear and shame, terrified that admitting we’re not okay makes us less faithful or less worthy.

I had to dig deep and ask myself why.

Why do we hide? Why do we shy away from the messy, broken places when those are the very places where God shows up? Why do we believe that struggling means we’ve somehow failed Him?

Let me tell you what I learned: this journey didn’t weaken my faith—it deepened it. It drew me into the arms of Jesus in ways I might never have experienced if everything in my life had been perfect. In the stillness of my pain, I found His rhythm—a rhythm of grace, of healing, of hope. I also learned that I had strength and a lot of it. To crawl out of the dark and step into the light… there’s immense power and bravery in that.

Depression isn’t new. It’s there in the Bible itself. Elijah sat under a broom tree and begged God to take his life. David cried out in despair, asking God if He had forgotten him. Hannah’s grief was so overwhelming that people thought she was drunk.

What these stories remind us is this: God doesn’t turn away from our brokenness. He doesn’t flinch from our pain. He draws near, tenderly inviting us to bring it all to Him.

So if you’re in that place today, I want you to know—you’re not alone. You don’t have to carry this by yourself. God sees you, He hears you, and He is with you, even when it feels like no one else is.

And if you’ve walked through the darkness and found the light, I want to encourage you: let’s be the ones who show up. Let’s be the ones who fill the gaps where compassion and understanding has been missing. Let’s create spaces where people feel safe to say, “I’m not okay.” Let’s create a warm embrace for those that need to talk, to have someone pray, sometimes even just sitting beside them and saying nothing.

This isn’t a conversation we can afford to avoid anymore. And battling mental health should not bring shame or have you questioning if you’ve lost your faith. Because let me tell you… If you’re still talking to God, you still have your faith, lovely. Don’t let the enemy tell you otherwise.

Let’s talk about it.

Love Sarah x.

(Next week, we talk about Anxiety as we move through this limited series, Let’s talk about it.)

*If this post has touched your heart, there’s more to come as I open up about, anxiety, church hurt, grief, broken friendships and more in the limited series, ‘Let’s talk about it.’ Comments will be closed to paid members only, to keep responses private.

I’d love for you to consider becoming a paid supporter of this space. It helps keep this creator creating, but it will always be totally optional, of course. I’m so thankful you’re journeying here with me no matter how you show up. ❤️ And don’t forget to share this space as much as you can, it means more than you know!

*Little Sparrow Loved Crew, we have a thread talking about this in the chat space too, so be sure to head on over!