STILL CHOOSING TO STAY: A REFLECTION ON LONELINESS, FAITH AND MENTAL HEALTH

Sunday was very difficult. Not in a dramatic or loud way, but in a quiet, heavy way that is harder to explain and easier to hide.

It was the kind of heaviness that does not announce itself. It simply arrives, settles beside you, and behaves as though it has always belonged. Disappointment greeted me before the sun did, slipping into my morning with an unsettling familiarity. Loneliness followed soon after, even though I was surrounded by people. Because proximity does not equal connection, and noise does not cancel absence.

Halfway through church service, I left.

Not because something was wrong. Not because I was offended or distracted. I left because I felt like it. Being there already required more emotional energy than I had, especially considering it was a fight just to walk in the door. That is the truth—MY truth. I did not want to be there. I did not feel like showing up.

Standing in that space forced me to confront something painful... I had to come face to face with how infrequently I am shown up for. I know this may sound redundant, but old habits die hard, and that realization landed heavy. In all honesty, heavier than the room itself. Heavier than the worship music playing around me. That was the pain that greeted me early Sunday morning.

Outwardly, I did what I always do. I laughed when it was expected. I nodded politely. I showed up in the ways I know how. But internally, something felt hollow.

Then it happened. Quietly and quickly. A thought flickered across my mind, like a match struck in a dark room. It was the old anesthetic. The idea of numbing. The idea of quieting everything at once. It startled me, not because it was loud, but because it was familiar. The kind of familiarity I thought I had outgrown. The kind of thought I assumed no longer knew my address. Thoughts that I am unashamed of. Suicide Ideation had not visited me in many years. And if I had not been paying attention, I would have missed it.

Thoughts about death rarely arrive shouting. They whisper. They present themselves as comfort. They offer relief dressed up as rest. I found myself wondering if this is the same lie whispered to people who appear successful yet still choose to end their lives? Time and time again, it has be announced that those we admire have taken their own lives. In times like these I am left to wonder whether the applause ever quiets the ache, whether achievement numbs loneliness, whether public admiration can silence private suffering? From personal experience... the answer is "NO"!

That thought tried to point me toward a pill bottle and rename escape as peace. Not one or two pills, but enough to call it sleep. Enough to make the ache stop asking questions. What unsettled me most was not the thought itself, but how casually it attempted to sit beside me, like an old friend checking in. As if it were reasonable. As if pain automatically meant permission to disappear.

People often tell me I look graceful. Composed. Put together. I am complimented on how I carry myself, how I show up, how well I seem to hold things together, but beneath the surface, heartbreak lives there.

I wonder if people would act differently if they knew how close beauty often stands to breaking. I wonder how often survival wears lipstick and calls itself strength. How often composure is mistaken for wholeness. I wonder how many people pause long enough to ask not “How are you?” but “Where does it hurt?”

And yet, the common refrain is that everyone is going through something. Which leads me to ask a harder question. What is the purpose of community if it cannot hold us in our most honest moments?

The part of me that many people consider too deep, too raw, or too uncomfortable is also the part of me that refuses to posture at the feet of defeat. That part of me is unresolved, unannounced, and unapologetic. She is the resilient part. The part that feels the ache long enough to articulate the pain instead of running from it.

The boldness I carry is weighty. It is costly. More often than not, it is isolating because it is misunderstood. And yet, I know it is part of my mantle.

Sunday did not defeat me, but it did remind me that healing is not a straight line. Healing does not mean the absence of intrusive or familiar thoughts. It means recognizing them before they take the lead. It means learning the difference between a feeling and a command.

So, I slowed down. I paid attention. I stayed present. I named the moment instead of obeying it. I reminded myself that discomfort is not a verdict and that pain is information, not instruction. Staying, I am learning, is sometimes the bravest thing a person can do.

I stayed with the ache. I stayed with the questions. I stayed with the loneliness that tried to convince me it was permanent. I stayed with the truth that even now, even here, I am still learning how to be held without disappearing first. Still learning how to let pain speak without allowing it to drive. Still learning that rest does not require erasure.

Sunday asked me difficult questions. Today, I am still breathing. And that has to matter.

Because choosing to stay, even quietly, even imperfectly, is still choosing life. And today, that has to be enough.

If this resonated with you, pause before you scroll. Check in with yourself. Be honest with yourself about where you've been showing up while feeling unseen?

And friend, it's okay if you don't have the answers right now. I am simply asking that you STAY!