The Question That Broke Me
- 33 minutes ago
- 9 min read
Mental Health Awareness Month is coming to an end, and if I were preaching, I'd probably have a lot to say.
Maybe too much.
But I think I'd start here.
Earlier today, Dr. Lance sent me a message.
Nothing earth-shattering.
Nothing dramatic.
Just a simple check-in.
And if I'm being honest, I was immediately confused.
Not because I didn't understand the question.
Not because there was some hidden meaning behind it.
I was confused because I am so accustomed to being the one checking on everyone else that I genuinely wasn't prepared for someone checking on me.
That realization hit harder than I expected.
I sat there staring at my phone for a moment, trying to figure out why a simple question felt so heavy.
Maybe because it reminded me how rare it is.
Maybe because when you're the person everyone calls, everyone leans on, everyone reaches for in a crisis, people often assume you're okay.
Or maybe because it exposed something I hadn't fully acknowledged.
Nobody really checks on the person who does all the checking.
At least not often.
And when they do, it can make you pause.
It can make you uncomfortable.
It can make you realize just how long you've been carrying things by yourself.
After all, I spend a significant portion of my non hr global leader life checking on other people. I'm a mental health coach. A grief coach. A trauma coach. I lead a nonprofit dedicated to mental health awareness, education, and advocacy. I spend my days asking people difficult questions, helping them navigate hard seasons, and reminding them that they don't have to carry their burdens alone.
Yet there I was, staring at a text message, realizing that sometimes the helper needs help too.
Sometimes the coach needs coaching.
Sometimes the encourager needs encouragement.
Sometimes the person holding everyone else together is quietly trying to keep themselves from falling apart.
And maybe that's where this story begins.
I remember responding to him and saying something along the lines of:
"I'm compartmentalizing so that the sum of all totals equals I'm fine for everyone else."
It was probably one of the most honest answers I've given in a long time.
Because the truth is, sometimes "fine" is a carefully assembled collection of compartments.
One box for work.
One box for ministry.
One box for parenting.
One box for friendships.
One box for grief.
One box for trauma.
One box for responsibilities.
And if you stack them just right, nobody notices that you're carrying the entire weight of the house by yourself.
The problem is that eventually the boxes get heavy.
And eventually something gives.
Since we're being honest, let me be transparent.
I live with Complex PTSD.
I have anxiety.
I battle high-functioning depression.
I attend multi weekly sessions of therapy.
I participate in EMDR therapy, a treatment designed to help people process traumatic memories that remain stuck in the nervous system. In simple terms, EMDR helps the brain reprocess trauma so it no longer feels as though you're reliving it in real time.
It's effective.
It's life-changing.
And it's exhausting.
Some sessions leave me emotionally drained for days.
Sometimes healing hurts.
That's a sentence the church doesn't always say out loud.
We love testimonies.
We love victory stories.
We love hearing that God brought somebody through.
But we don't always talk about the middle.
The messy part.
The counseling appointments.
The medication adjustments.
The therapy sessions.
The tears in the car before work. After work.
The moments when you're praying and processing and surviving all at the same time.
There has never been a season of my adult life where medication wasn't within arm's reach.
At any given moment, I can probably shake enough prescription bottles to sound like a one-woman percussion section. On some days, it sounds less like a percussion section and more like maracas.
The joke gets a laugh.
The reality behind it isn't funny.
Because every bottle represents a battle.
Every appointment represents work.
Every coping skill represents something I've had to learn because life handed me something I never asked for.
Every prescription represents another attempt to find balance while still showing up for work, ministry, family, and life.
Most people see the version of me that gets things done.
They see the speaker.
The leader.
The coach.
The advocate.
The mother.
The ministry leader.
What they don't always see is the woman behind the title trying to make sure she takes the right medication at the right time, remembers her appointments, works through her trauma, and still finds enough energy to smile at the people she loves.
Like bruises nobody sees
I can say without hesitation that my first marriage was not without bruises.
Some bruises healed.
Some scars remain.
Not because I live there anymore.
I try very hard not to.
But trauma has a way of reminding you that certain chapters happened whether you want to revisit them or not.
Anniversaries come.
Dates return.
Memories surface.
Smells trigger recollections.
Songs reopen doors.
Conversations awaken things you thought were buried.
And suddenly you're not just dealing with today.
You're dealing with years ago too.
That's one of the cruel realities of trauma.
The event ends.
The impact doesn't.
David understood this kind of struggle.
In Psalm 13:2 he cries out:
"How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all day long?"
Notice what David does.
He doesn't pretend.
He doesn't perform strength.
He doesn't fake joy.
He tells God exactly where he is.
Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that faith meant pretending.
Scripture teaches something different.
Faith isn't pretending you're okay.
Faith is bringing the truth of where you are before a God who already knows.
There is another layer to this conversation that many Black women understand immediately.
We are often expected to be strong.
Not strong sometimes.
Strong always.
Strong at work.
Strong at church.
Strong at home.
Strong for our children.
Strong for our parents.
Strong for our communities.
Strong when we're hurting.
Strong when we're grieving.
Strong when we're exhausted.
Strong when we're barely holding it together.
And the moment we show weakness, someone questions our competence.
Our professionalism.
Our leadership.
Our resilience.
The expectation becomes impossible.
Because strength was never supposed to mean silence.
Even Jesus wept.
Even Elijah collapsed beneath a tree and asked God to take his life.
Even Jeremiah became known as the weeping prophet.
Even Paul admitted being burdened beyond his strength.
The Bible is filled with faithful people who struggled emotionally.
Yet somehow we still make people feel ashamed for doing the same.
And then there's parenting.
The role that doesn't pause when you're tired.
The role that doesn't care if you've had a bad day.
The role that doesn't stop because you're grieving, anxious, overwhelmed, or emotionally exhausted.
As parents, there is no such thing as a true down day.
Our children are always watching.
Always learning.
Always listening.
They are looking to us to understand what strength looks like.
What resilience looks like.
What faith looks like.
What perseverance looks like.
And if I'm honest, there have been days when the strongest thing I've done wasn't getting on a stage, leading a meeting, teaching a class, or coaching someone through a crisis.
The strongest thing I've done was simply getting out of bed.
The strongest thing I've done was showing up.
The strongest thing I've done was choosing not to quit.
There have been moments when I sat in a doctor's office, in a patient room, and completely fell apart at one simple question.
"How are you?"
Not graceful tears.
Not church tears.
Not cute tears.
The ugly kind.
The kind that catch you by surprise.
The kind that reveal you've been carrying more than you realized.
I wish I could tell you I had some profound revelation in that moment.
I didn't.
I was just tired.
Tired of being strong.
Tired of carrying things.
Tired of pretending some wounds weren't still tender.
And maybe that's why that moment mattered.
Because sometimes healing begins when we stop performing.
Jesus says in Matthew 11:28:
"Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest."
Notice He didn't say:
"Come to me when you've fixed yourself."
He said come weary.
Come burdened.
Come exhausted.
Come exactly as you are.
Ask Anyway
So here's my challenge.
Ask anyway.
Ask the question.
"How are you?"
Not because you'll always have the answer.
You won't.
Not because you'll know what to say.
Sometimes you won't.
Not because you'll be able to fix what's broken.
Most of the time you can't.
But because listening may be the very thing someone needs.
A conversation may interrupt despair.
A phone call may stop isolation.
A text message may remind someone they matter.
A check-in may become the reason someone keeps going.
Proverbs 18:21 reminds us that life and death are in the power of the tongue.
Sometimes life sounds like:
"I'm thinking about you."
"How are you really doing?"
"You don't have to carry this alone."
"I'm here."
And don't forget the children
As Mental Health Awareness Month comes to a close, let me say something we don't discuss enough.
Pay attention to the children.
Growing up today is different than when many of us were young.
Children are navigating social media, cyberbullying, comparison culture, academic pressure, anxiety, depression, loneliness, identity struggles, and a 24-hour digital world that never seems to shut off.
Many children are carrying burdens they don't yet have language for.
Many are suffering quietly behind screens.
Many are comparing themselves to unrealistic standards before they are old enough to understand that social media is often a highlight reel and not reality.
And too often we don't notice until something tragic happens.
Don't wait for a crisis.
Ask questions now.
Listen now.
Create safe spaces now.
Believe them now.
Support them now.
Our children deserve more than our correction.
They deserve our attention.
As Mental Health Awareness Month comes to a close, my prayer is simple.
I pray that we stop treating mental health like a conversation reserved for emergencies.
I pray that we stop waiting until someone completely falls apart before we decide to pay attention.
I pray that we become people who notice.
People who ask.
People who listen.
People who care.
People who stay.
I pray that when you see someone battling the demons nobody else can see, fighting through grief, depression, trauma, anxiety, loneliness, or exhaustion, that you don't simply watch from a distance and hope someone else reaches out.
Be the someone.
Send the text.
Make the call.
Check in.
Ask the question.
Offer the prayer.
Offer the ride.
Offer the listening ear.
Offer the resource if you have it.
Offer the reminder that they don't have to carry it alone.
And if you're reading this and you're the one struggling, let me say something directly to you.
Please don't suffer in silence.
Come to me when the world becomes too much.
Come to me when you don't know what to do next.
Come to me when you're tired.
Come to me when you're angry.
Come to me when you're grieving.
Come to me when you're overwhelmed.
I may not have all the answers.
Truthfully, most days I don't.
But I may have a resource.
I may know a therapist.
I may know a support group.
I may know a strategy.
I may know someone who can help.
And if nothing else, I can sit with you long enough to remind you that you don't have to face it by yourself.
And while we're being honest, let me ask for something in return.
If you ever see me looking like the weight of the world is sitting on my shoulders, cut me some grace.
Some days I manage.
Some days I don't.
Some days I'm okay.
Some days I can't even spell okay.
Some days I truly am fine.
Some days I would love for "fine" to be somewhere in my vocabulary.
Some days I walk into therapy feeling hopeful.
Some days I walk out emotionally exhausted.
Some days I can carry the weight.
Some days the weight carries me.
And on those days, I need the same compassion that I try so hard to give to everyone else.
Because healing isn't linear.
Trauma recovery isn't linear.
Grief isn't linear.
Faith isn't the absence of struggle.
Faith is trusting God in the middle of it.
The Apostle Paul reminds us in Galatians 6:2 to "bear one another's burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ."
Notice he didn't say evaluate one another's burdens.
Judge one another's burdens.
Compare one another's burdens.
He said bear them.
Carry them together.
Walk alongside one another.
That's what community looks like.
That's what church looks like.
That's what love looks like.
And maybe that's what Mental Health Awareness Month should ultimately remind us.
Not simply that mental health matters.
But that people matter.
The people sitting beside us in church.
The people working in the office next door.
The friend who suddenly got quiet.
The teenager spending more time alone.
The parent trying to hold everything together.
The caregiver.
The helper.
The pastor.
The coach.
The counselor.
The strong friend.
The person everyone assumes is okay.
Check on them too.
Because sometimes the strongest people you know are carrying battles you know nothing about.
And sometimes a simple question can become the beginning of someone's healing.
"How are you?"
You never know what might happen when you ask.
And if you're wondering how I'm doing?
My honest answer is this:
I'm healing.
I'm still standing.
I'm still doing the work.
I'm still showing up.
I'm still believing God.
And by the grace of God, that's enough.
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