Jesus Knows Where I Left My Sanity

And He’s not making me retrace my steps to find it.

There was a moment I broke.

Not the kind of break you notice right away. It was quiet at first. Just a few forgotten appointments. A growing fog in my mind. A tiredness I couldn’t sleep off. And then one day, I couldn’t get out of bed. Couldn’t speak without my voice shaking. Couldn’t stop crying in rooms where no one could see me.

I wish I could say I saw it coming. I didn’t.

It felt like I’d left my sanity somewhere between the prayer I whispered in the car and the dishes I didn’t finish putting away. Somewhere in the middle of being everything for everyone, I stopped being anything for myself.

And I believed the lie. The one that said, You can’t come to Jesus like this.

I thought I had to retrace my steps. That I needed to find what I’d lost before I could return to Him. I thought He’d be waiting for the composed version of me, the one who could still quote verses with confidence and smile without effort.

But He wasn’t.

Jesus met me right there in the fog.

He didn’t ask me where I’d been. He didn’t ask me to explain. He didn’t expect me to pull myself together before showing up. He simply came close.

Because He already knew where I left my sanity. And He wasn’t making me go back to find it.

That’s who He is…

The One who sees the unraveling before it begins. The One who stays when the pieces scatter. The One who holds space for our confusion and doesn’t call it failure.

“Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” -Matthew 11:28

He didn’t say come when you feel strong again. He didn’t say come when the storm has passed. He said come when you’re weary.

And I was.

So I did.

Not with eloquent words. Not with unshakable faith. Just with what I had left.

And it didn’t feel like much…

I’ve spoken before about my breakdown. But the truth is, I write this years later and I’m still healing from what was burned up in the fire. Some of the ash still lingers. Some of the wounds still ache when the weather changes.

Because the pain of walking through a tormented mind, the loneliness of it, is something not many talk about in Christian spaces.

It’s scary to bring up.

It’s messy to sit with.

And let’s be honest… it’s uncomfortable to witness.

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

That doesn’t mean it’s not happening in the pew beside you.

I think we’ve made peace with talking about trials, but we still avoid the conversation about what it feels like to lose yourself inside your own head.

To not trust your thoughts.

To not recognize your reactions.

To be so gripped by fear or numbness or exhaustion that you wonder if you’ll ever feel normal again.

It’s isolating. And it’s holy ground. Because that’s where Jesus comes closest. That’s where you realise, He’s the only one to walk you out of that fire and never let go.

After you break like that, you don’t rise the same. You rise slowly. Carefully. More aware.

You become tender in places that once felt hard. You stop needing to have all the answers. You start noticing the invisible weight others are carrying.

Because once you’ve sobbed on your bathroom floor, once you’ve whispered God, please help me into a pillow soaked with tears, you don’t judge people the same anymore.

You see them. The worn-out ones. The shut-down ones. The women doing their best just to survive the day.

You stop trying to fix them. You start sitting with them. That’s what breaking does. It cracks you open so that mercy can get in.

I write from the pain because I’m no longer afraid to face or sit in it.

Oh, but here’s the truth. I used to run from it, afraid that if I looked too closely, I’d fall apart again. But now I know… pain doesn’t undo me. It reveals me.

It shows me what I still carry. What I still believe. What still needs healing. And more than that, it shows me the God who doesn’t flinch when I crumble.

The God who stays.

So if you feel like your mind is fraying, like your strength has run dry, like you’ve lost something you may never get back… I want to tell you this:

You’re not broken beyond repair.

You’re not too much.

You’re not failing.

You’re healing.

Even now. Even here.

And you don’t have to go searching for the old version of yourself. She served you well, but Jesus is not asking for her. He’s calling you as you are now. The one still in the fog. The one unsure how to begin again.

You don’t need to retrace your steps.

You just need to come close.

And you already have.

Love, Sarah xx.

This July, I’m beginning a brand-new private blog thread for paid members called, Unfiltered Faith Space. It’s for the ones who are still standing after everything fell apart. It’s for the one who buried the dream, who lost someone, who is quietly trying to piece together a life they didn’t choose.

Each week, I’ll share a raw and sacred post, the ones I can’t always share publicly. No fixing. No sugarcoating. Just real faith for real heartbreak.

Here’s a glimpse of what’s coming:

• The Day It All Crumbled

• Living With What You Lost

• I Don’t Want a Silver Lining

• And a 5-day devotional to close the month: A New Beginning in the Ruins

It’s all coming this July, every Friday inside the Unfiltered Faith Space.

And I’d love to have you there.

Not as a follower. As someone who knows the ache. As someone who’s ready to sit in the quiet, honest middle of it all with me.

If that’s you, consider becoming a paid supporter of this little place today and unlock everything waiting behind the curtain… past devotionals, past posts, private updates, and of course, July’s launch of the Unfiltered Faith Space series.

And if you’d like to stay a free subscriber, that’s amazing too! I appreciate you showing up here, cheering me on, sharing my newsletter and supporting me anyway you can, xx.