It was a simple text. “I’m headed to Costco later… need anything?”

Simple, thoughtful, kind. My friend knew my husband was out of town, it was end of the school year craziness, and I was working on final book edits. She was employing one of my favorite friendship strategies: offer to help while doing something you’re already doing!

What normally would have made me feel seen and loved instantly sent me into a tailspin I couldn’t pull out of.

My mind rushed through the list of all the things we needed from Costco. With three teenage boys who eat all the time, the fridge was empty again. Bread, apples, bananas, carrots, chicken, milk, eggs, frozen mango, lettuce, tortilla chips, cheese, and seventeen other things rattled in my brain. I couldn’t send her my entire $300 shopping list. I would just go to the store myself later. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t have time. Help was available now. But which things were most important? Why was this so hard to decide?

I tried to text back three times… and then the dam broke and I started to cry.

What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I get it together?

I retreated to the bathroom. Leaned against the wall. Sunk down to the floor. Held my knees. And sobbed.

Somehow a text about Costco unleashed a deep sadness I couldn’t hold in. I cried and cried until a mountain of soggy Kleenex formed around me. I didn’t know where the sadness was coming from or when the tears would run dry.

Thirty minutes later, I was back to unloading the dishwasher, answering emails, coordinating rides for my teens, checking on my elderly neighbor, and feeding my sourdough starter.

This is anxiety and depression.

It’s like one of those awful Viking ship carnival rides that swing from height to height, bringing you back to center for a moment barely long enough to catch your breath before pushing you way past your equilibrium again. I don’t like this ride.

I finally decided that bananas, blueberries, almond milk, and a rotisserie chicken would be extremely helpful. My husband Facetimed me, and we both laughed over my splotchy red face and the crocodile tears that fell as soon as I said hello. (Levity after 20 years of marriage is a gift.) I took a nap because that’s the only thing that made sense.

Later, my friend arrived with my mini Costco haul. I thanked her and we chatted about summer plans and her mom falling and how our kids are getting so big. As she moved to leave, lest her own groceries spoil, I blurted out, “Can you pray for me?” and then promptly started to cry — again.

My friend pulled me into a hug and asked what was wrong. All I could do was shrug as tears soaked her shoulder.

I babbled about how it could be the grief I was holding for dear ones walking through fiery trials or these dang perimenopausal hormones that can’t decide which way is up. I wondered aloud if I was in the thick of a spiritual attack or if it was the weight of uncertainty surrounding some big decisions. Maybe I ate too much gluten or spent too much time on social media or…

“I don’t know,” I said again and again.

My friend looked at me and said, “Maybe you don’t have to know.”

As someone who has struggled with diagnosed anxiety and depression for almost a decade (and likely all my life before I knew what to call it), it still frustrates me to no end that I can’t easily name or explain what I experience. I prefer to recognize, identify, and analyze my thoughts and feelings, along with their root cause, and then develop a five-step strategy to move through, learn from, and never return to their uncomfortable company again. Please and thank you.

But my friend’s gentle words reminded me of what I’ve learned through years of mental health struggle: Jesus doesn’t need me to understand or explain it in order to meet me in it.

The God of all comfort, the God of all hope, the God who works all things for my good, the One who never leaves me or forsakes me, the Shepherd who calls me by name and carries me close to His heart is with me on the bathroom floor. His presence envelops me as I take the nap my body needs, and as I push through to meet the deadline that must be met. His goodness follows me and His mercy runs ahead of me. I don’t have to perfectly articulate why I need Him — it’s enough to simply cry out that I do.

God is already here.

My heart knows what David penned:

Where can I go from your Spirit?
    Where can I flee from your presence?
 If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
    if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
    if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
    your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
    and the light become night around me,”
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
    the night will shine like the day,
    for darkness is as light to you.
Psalm 139:7-12 NIV

I don’t need to justify my grieving heart and jittery body and distracted mind for the ache to be real. The darkness becomes light when I stop shaming myself for the sadness I can’t explain. God’s hand holds me when I call out to Him, then send a deeply honest text to a few trusted friends. I feel His love when others meet me in my mess and love me still — splotchy face and all.

Anxiety and depression can feel like a darkness that will never lift. But they do. They have. Today I am okay.

But even when the darkness feels thick, even when I want to hide, God’s love finds me.

He finds you too.

He never left you.

Becky’s upcoming book, A Verse a Day for the Anxious Soul, is a gentle guide to experiencing God’s peace when anxiety weighs heavy. Preorder your copy now.

 

Listen to Becky’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast wherever you stream.

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