STXWM Blog

I’m going to be honest, I can’t remember who on our blog team suggested the topic of mental health for this month. But whether by divine appointment or by coincidence, I’m grateful for the opportunity, because this conversation is long overdue in the church.

I’ve long been an advocate for open and honest discussions about mental health, especially in Christian spaces. Not because it’s easy, and certainly not because I have it all figured out—but because for the first half of my life, I carried a deep, hidden shame about the very real struggles I faced.

At 8 years old, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. By 11, I confessed to desiring death more than life and was admitted to an inpatient facility for children. That’s not a story you often hear from the pulpit. But it’s mine. And I know it’s not just mine.

Growing up in the church, I was taught—either explicitly or subtly—that the pain I felt was spiritual failure. That my depression was proof of a weak faith, an absence of the Holy Spirit, or even evidence that I had never truly been saved. I was told, either in words or in implications, that if I really loved Jesus, I wouldn’t feel this way. If I were really forgiven, I would have the “joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart.” But I didn’t.

These well-meaning but misguided messages left me feeling not just broken, but spiritually defective. Not just hurt—but unholy. I believed I was a disappointment to the people around me and to God Himself.

So I did what many of us learn to do: I faked it.

“How are you doing, sister?”
“Blessed and highly favored!”

I smiled through clenched teeth, masking my pain with forced cheerfulness. And as soon as the conversation ended, the smile faded. Because now, I wasn’t just depressed—I was a liar. I was fake. I was a fraud.

As a teenager, I started and stopped taking medication, riding the exhausting roller coaster of slight improvement, false confidence, relapse, and self-harm. At times, I felt hopeless enough to try and end it all. And yet—God did not let go of me.

I am now 41 years old. Still walking with Jesus. Still taking medication. Still carrying this “thorn in my flesh,” as Paul describes in 2 Corinthians 12:7. And still declaring the faithfulness of God.

Paul writes:

“Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” (2 Corinthians 12:8–9)

This verse has become a lifeline for me. It reminds me that the presence of a struggle does not mean the absence of God. That His grace is not withheld because I hurt—it’s made perfect in the hurt. Mental illness does not cancel out salvation, nor does it negate the presence of the Holy Spirit. The same God who knit me together in my mother’s womb (Psalm 139:13) also knows the intricate, complex wiring of my mind. He sees it all, and He calls it wonderfully made.

I am fearfully and wonderfully made. That truth doesn’t disappear just because I take medication for my brain any more than when I take medicine for diabetes. My reliance on medicine does not compete with my reliance on God. They work together. I believe God, in His goodness, has given us tools—medical, therapeutic, spiritual—to steward our minds and bodies for His glory.

We need to stop equating mental health struggles with spiritual weakness. The Bible is full of God’s people crying out in despair. Elijah asked God to take his life (1 Kings 19:4). David, the man after God’s own heart, wrote psalms that say things like:

“Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me?” (Psalm 42:11)
“Darkness is my closest friend.” (Psalm 88:18)

These were not godless men. They were beloved, called, and human.

I believe it is time for the Church to break the silence and shame surrounding mental illness. Not with platitudes, but with compassion. Not with shame, but with support. Not by telling people to “pray it away,” but by walking with them through their valleys, reminding them they are not alone. Reminding them that Jesus Himself was “a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3).

If you are struggling, hear me: You are not broken beyond repair. You are not faithless. You are not alone. Your pain does not make you less valuable in the Kingdom—it makes you a living testimony of God’s sustaining grace. Jesus does not shy away from your wounds. He steps into them.

And if you are walking with someone who is struggling, remember the power of presence. Sometimes, the most Christlike thing you can do is simply sit with someone in their pain without trying to fix it.

This is my story. It’s messy. It’s painful. And it’s not over. But in every chapter, Jesus has been faithful. Not because I am strong, but because He is.

So, as we talk about mental health this month, let’s do it with gentleness, truth, and the unwavering hope of the Gospel. Let’s remind each other that even in the darkness, light still shines. And that nothing—not depression, not shame, not even our lowest moments—can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:38–39).

I believe the faith of those who struggle with mental illness is audacious. It is no small thing to follow God when your own mind is warring against you. It is a bold, defiant act of faith to wake up each day and choose to believe in the goodness of God when your thoughts are screaming otherwise. To declare the promises of Scripture over yourself—I am loved, I am chosen, I am not alone—while your mind whispers lies of worthlessness and despair, is a kind of faith that often goes unseen but is deeply powerful. It is not weak faith but courageous, gritty, tenacious faith. The kind that keeps showing up in the dark, lifting shaky hands in worship, and saying, “Even so, I will trust You.” That is not a lesser faith. That is a faith that reflects the very heart of Christ in Gethsemane, a faith that bleeds, weeps, and still obeys.

Mental Health Resources are available at https://www.stxagwm.org/mental-health and if you are in crisis you can visit your nearest emergency room or call 988 24 hours a day for live help.

Tracie Tevault is a recent addition to the STXWM blog team. Married for 15 years to her best friend, Tracie is raising one awesome son and three spoiled cats. With a heart for ministry, Tracie has served in many areas, but her true passion lies in reaching those who might not fit the traditional church mold. She’s all about showing people they are loved, valued, and created with a purpose.