For five years, I lived in a cage of silence and pretence, pretending to be okay on the outside while slowly unravelling inside.

My family’s move to Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo, was supposed to be an adventure. My husband had a new job, and our two children couldn’t wait to explore a new place. In my mind, the challenge would be manageable. But I completely underestimated what it means to uproot your life only to land in a world where you don’t speak the language.

The language barrier didn’t just inconvenience me; it slowly choked the life out of me. I couldn’t talk to neighbours, drivers, or even the shopkeepers. And, professionally, the roles I was qualified for required fluent French, which I didn’t speak at all. Suddenly, the capable, confident woman I was felt useless. My confidence slipped. Then my sense of worth. Then my purpose. While my husband went to work and the kids went to school, I began feeling like I was fading, watching the days blur into weeks from behind a window.

Isolation settled over me, heavy and cold. Eventually, I was unhappy. Then I was depressed. And the worst part was that I felt I had failed my faith. Real Christians don’t get depressed, do they? My sadness felt like a spiritual flaw, not a human struggle. This guilt only tangled my faith further.

Then one morning, in the middle of my unravelling, I stood in the bathroom, staring at my reflection. It was an attempt to ground myself, a desperate measure to remind myself I was still a person. I looked at the reflection and whispered the only truth I still held: “I’m a Christian.”

Even still, a question surfaced, sharp and unrelenting: What does it actually mean to be a Christian in this moment?

That question shattered my self-pity. I remembered that Christ died for me, meaning my worth was secure, not tied to productivity or positions. I didn’t need an 9-to-5 job to matter. I didn’t need to speak French to be a child of God. My worth was bought and paid for long before I ever coordinated a staff meeting or uttered a word of French.

I realized that perhaps this season wasn’t punishment or stagnation; it was an invitation to reset. Instead of seeing this rare time as a curse, I decided to see it as an opportunity to run toward God. So, I started to be still. I started journaling and truly seeking God for the first time in years.

Within a few months, something unexpected began to stir in me. What started as simple journaling to steady my soul slowly grew into a quiet calling, a ministry I never planned. Thoughts I wrote down to help myself heal began forming into words that strengthened others. For years, I had wondered what my purpose truly was, but there, in the middle of my wilderness, God whispered clarity into the very place where I felt the emptiest.

I now thank God for the uncomfortable years, because the hardest place became the holiest place. The painful place prompted the pivot that led me to who I am becoming.

Friend, if you are feeling stuck, invisible, forgotten, or lost, know that your wilderness is not a punishment; it is an invitation. “Be still and know that I am God” is not just poetry; it is instruction for weathering life’s storms and discovering the purpose God is shaping — in and through your struggles.