I was sitting in my bedroom, the lights dim, my baby in my arms, trying to nurse her like I had so many times before. But this time she wouldn’t latch. She pulled away, frustrated. I tried again. Nothing. A quiet panic started to rise in my chest.
The quiet was no longer peaceful. It was heavy with fear.
I had always had an oversupply. Feeding my babies had never been the issue. But that week I hadn’t been eating. I hadn’t been sleeping. My mind had been running numbers over and over again—budget fears, worst-case scenarios, financial what-ifs that refused to let me rest. I had been living in a fight-or-flight state for days.
And then, in that quiet room, I felt the Holy Spirit whisper, Do you remember the list?
Having received a degree in counseling psychology, a page from one of my textbooks flashed in my mind.
Are you eating?
Are you sleeping?
Are you able to care for your children?
Suddenly I knew. The lights hadn’t just gone out that week. They had been dimming and fading to darkness for years. And I could not turn the switch back on by myself.
I didn’t know I had anxiety.
I didn’t know that excessive worrying and repetitive, scary thoughts could actually be clinical anxiety. I didn’t know that the constant loop of fear and doom in my mind had a name. I just thought I worried more than most people.
As a child, I would lie awake at night imagining someone on the roof, planning how to break into our home. I rehearsed fire escape routes in my head. I walked into grocery stores scanning strangers, silently evaluating who might be a threat. Once the thought-loop began, I was stuck. No amount of logic stopped it.
When people hear OCD, they often picture visible compulsions, like hand washing. Mine lived in my mind. My fears formed pathways—neural grooves my brain easily returned to. The more often the thoughts replayed, the more real they felt. Science tells us that the brain can struggle to distinguish between repeated imagined scenarios and actual lived experiences. My mind was rehearsing tragedy so often that my body responded as if it were true.
And when you live trapped in your own mind, you don’t just feel afraid. You feel alone. You feel exhausted. You begin to wonder if this is just how life will always be.
David’s words in Psalm 6:6 felt painfully familiar: “I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping.”
Scripture does not hide mental anguish. It names it. It brings it into the light.
For years, I assumed this was just part of my personality. It wasn’t until after the birth of my third child that someone handed me a postpartum anxiety screening instead of a postpartum depression form. I checked nearly every box.
I had passed the depression screenings with my first two babies. I wasn’t hopeless in the way the checklist described. I was functioning. But underneath, my thoughts were relentless—fears about medicine dosages, ingredients in baby wipes, breathing patterns in the night. And as anxiety tightened its grip, depression quietly followed.
Some common postpartum anxiety screening questions new mothers might be asked are:
- “In the past two weeks, how often have you felt nervous, anxious, or on edge?”
- “Do you find yourself worrying too much about things, even when everything seems okay?”
- “Are you having trouble falling or staying asleep because your mind won’t stop racing?”
- “How often have you felt easily irritated, overwhelmed, or unable to cope?”
- “Have you had unwanted or scary thoughts about something bad happening to your baby?”
When I closed my eyes, it felt dark. Like being locked in a room where the only voices present were my worst fears.
Becoming a believer helped me recognize something important. There were two realities happening at once: one biological, one spiritual.
There were neural pathways firing rapidly in my brain. Hormones fluctuating. My nervous system stuck in overdrive. And at the same time, there was a spiritual battle over truth—over what thoughts I would believe and rehearse.
Scripture tells us in 2 Corinthians 10:5 that we are to “take every thought captive to obey Christ.” But what happens when the thoughts fly faster than you can catch them? When they don’t politely knock but barge in?
Romans 12:2 says, “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind.” I longed for renewal. I just didn’t know how to access it when my brain felt hijacked.
Fast forward to the dark, scary moment in my room, to my baby who wouldn’t eat because I wasn’t producing milk. The Holy Spirit reminded me of the list I had once studied in a college psychology class: If you’re not eating, not sleeping, unable to care for your child—you need help.
I had grown up watching my mother battle severe PTSD. I watched medications come and go. I watched side effects. I watched disappointment. Somewhere along the way, I made a quiet vow: I would never take an antidepressant.
The irony was not lost on me. I had anxiety about taking anxiety medication.
But God, in His kindness, sent a friend. A strong, faith-filled woman who casually shared her own story of anxiety and how medication had helped quiet the noise in her mind. She loved Jesus. She worshipped freely. She was healthy and whole. And she took an antidepressant.
It flipped the script for me.
I had been praying. Journaling. Diffusing lavender. Taking vitamins. Doing all the “right” things. But I could not seem to break free from the dark room in my mind.
So I listened to the Holy Spirit, my Counselor, about if I should try an antidepressant, not because medication was my savior—but because Jesus gently led me to a doctor.
Psalm 27:1 says, “The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” I believed He was my light. I just needed help clearing the fog so I could see Him.
For me, medication did not replace the Holy Spirit. It quieted the intrusive volume enough that I could hear Him again. It steadied my nervous system so that Scripture could penetrate instead of bounce off panic. It allowed me to step outside into the sunlight, to exercise, to eat, to sleep—simple acts that partnered with healing.
And it was in that quieting that I began to recognize something deeper.
There is a passage in 2 Corinthians 12:7 where Paul describes a thorn in the flesh, something that caused ongoing weakness and dependence on God. For so long, this pattern in my mind had felt like that, a thorn that I begged God to remove.
But as the noise settled, I began to see it differently.
Genesis 50:20 says, “As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.” What the enemy intended for harm, God was redeeming.
What once felt like torment, this obsessive, looping thought pattern, this thorn in my flesh, began to be transformed. I realized my mind had been trained to focus deeply, to return to the same thought again and again. When that pattern partnered with fear, it was exhausting. But now, partnered with truth, it was becoming powerful.
The Holy Spirit gently spoke to me, You have permission to obsess over My promises. You have permission to meditate on My truth.
I didn’t need to fear the repetition. Jesus could redeem it.
I was allowed to go around and around and around the Word of God, as many times as I needed. What the enemy thought would trap me, God was using to train me. What felt like a weakness was becoming a weapon.
That same mental muscle began strengthening my ability to meditate on Scripture, to memorize truth, to sit with His promises until they became louder than fear. I started doing laps, not with anxiety, but with the Holy Spirit.
In 2 Timothy 1:7, Paul reminds us, “for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.” Some translations say “a sound mind.” I knew that verse. I had memorized it. But I could not force my brain into soundness through willpower alone.
Healing is promised in Isaiah 53:5: “with his wounds we are healed.” That promise is true—past, present, and future. But Jesus determines the method.
For some, healing is instantaneous. For others, it involves chemotherapy or surgery. For some, ultimate healing comes not in this lifetime but in His presence in eternity. For me, healing has looked like partnership. Prayer and prescription. Scripture and sunlight. Community and counseling. Worship and vitamins.
When Jesus healed the blind man in John 9:6–7, He did not simply speak sight into existence, though elsewhere He did. In this case, He made mud. He touched his eyes. He told him to go and wash. The miracle unfolded in steps of obedience.
My healing felt like a dimmer switch. Not an instant floodlight—but gradual illumination. As I followed His lead one step at a time, the room grew brighter. I began to recognize His presence had never left. The darkness had just crowded my vision.
Friend, if your thoughts feel loud and unrelenting, hear this: having the mind of Christ does not mean you will never struggle with intrusive thoughts. First Corinthians 2:16 declares, “But we have the mind of Christ.” That is a spiritual reality. And sometimes we need practical support to live in that reality.
Isaiah 55:8 says, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the LORD.” The anxious thoughts looping in your mind are not automatically the voice of truth. His thoughts are higher. Steadier. Anchored in love.
If the lights feel like they’ve been turned out for you, ask Him for the next step. Not the ten-year plan. Just the next step. It may be calling a friend. It may be seeing a counselor. It may be adjusting your rhythms of sleep and nourishment. It may even be talking with a doctor.
Seeking help is not a lack of faith. It is obedience when He whispers.
Jesus loves us wholly—body, mind, and spirit. He is not intimidated by chemistry. He is not threatened by therapy. He is the Author of wisdom and the giver of every good gift. Sometimes He heals in a moment. Sometimes He heals through a process. Sometimes He heals through partnership.
Little by little, as we walk with Him, the lights begin to come back on.
Prayer: Father, You are light in every dark place. When our thoughts feel louder than Your truth, steady our minds. Give us courage to seek help when we need it and humility to follow Your lead. Renew us from the inside out and teach us to trust Your ways of healing. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
If you find yourself in a place where the darkness feels too heavy to carry, please don’t stay there alone. There is help, and there are people ready to sit with you in the dark until the light begins to return.
Reaching out may feel like the hardest step, but it can also be the turning point. You don’t have to have the right words. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to take one small step toward connection.
If you are in the United States, you can call or text 988, the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, to reach trained counselors who are available 24/7. You are not alone, and your life matters more than this moment may be telling you.
