“Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines…
yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
I will be joyful in God my Savior.” (Habakkuk 3:17–18)

There are seasons when faith becomes quieter than we expect. Not louder. Not clearer. Just smaller, slower and more costly to carry.

I found myself in a winter valley — quieter, lonelier, and far less visible than any wilderness I had known before. A winter that stretched longer than I had words for, where staying present began to feel like the bravest form of faith I had left.

I had known relapse might come. I just didn’t know it would be one of many.

When I first shared my testimony in 2019, I wrote from a place of rebuilding and recovery — learning how God met me through depression, and how faith and community carried me through that valley. God would later use that story in ways I never expected, always for His glory.

The promise that I am fully known and deeply loved by God has always been my greatest treasure. I believed that while life would still carry its challenges, I had learnt how to cope in faith — having discovered what once helped me remain grounded.

Yet years later, I found myself struggling again — not because God was absent, but because faith now had to be lived without comfort, clarity, or witnesses.

Across several seasons, I experienced relapse again. And each time, I withdrew from community — not because I stopped believing in it, but because my capacity to be held safely had collapsed. Mental health has a way of narrowing what the soul can carry. Retreat became survival.

The thorn in my flesh

The first relapse came in 2021, when my mental health took another sharp turn. The depressive spiral returned in a way that felt both familiar and devastating, confronting me once again with how little control I had over it.

Over time, I came to understand that my mental health had become my thorn in the flesh.

In that deep valley, I was confronted with a difficult question: God, if You do not take this away — if You do not heal this — will I still worship You? Could I live with this for the rest of my life?

In that wrestling, I sensed God inviting me into a deeper surrender than I had known before.

It was then that I prayed, “To live is Christ, and to die is gain,” offering it as worship unto God.

My heart said: “Even if You do heal — and even if You do not — I will still praise You. I will offer this life to You as my worship.”

In that same season, I made another bold prayer. I asked God to keep my heart soft and tender before Him. That no matter what I walked through, I would still love Him, serve Him, and glorify Him in my worship.

I asked for a faith that would cost me — not one that only worked when it was convenient.

I learnt then, that grace was never the removal of weakness, but the presence of Christ within it.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Over time, I began to recognise a pattern in each relapse. I retreated and waited. I stayed present with God in the grief, trusting that His light would return in its own time. Healing was never immediate, but He was always faithful.

From the seasons that followed, I once again found myself able to joyfully love and serve God and people — building Kingdom community and testifying to His goodness with gratitude. That season was a gift, and it was real.

“Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines… yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.” (Habakkuk 3:17–18)

But healing does not mean life stops being challenging.

Family crisis, intense work pressures, and ministry responsibilities began to surface all at once. That season stretched me beyond what I could hold, requiring my full emotional presence for my family while still remaining functional at work and guarding what little capacity I had left for my mental health.

My cup had depleted beyond what I could give. I did not yet have the language to explain it — only the painful awareness that I could not come through for people in the ways I hoped to, or the ways they might reasonably expect.

Stepping back was not a rejection of community or ministry. It was an act of stewardship — choosing to stay alive, present, and grounded so that I could honour what had been entrusted to me without collapsing under its weight.

I did not yet know how to explain myself. I only knew that staying present would cost me more than I had to give.

After returning to church, there were moments when I tried to reach back into what had once been a safe circle — godly counsel and friendships that meant well and cared deeply.

In that process, I came to a painful but necessary realisation: sometimes even people you deeply respect and love cannot walk with you into certain valleys — not because they lack care, but because every person has limits to what they can hold.

That realisation grieved me, but it also freed me to stop asking people to be what only Jesus could be in that season.

Even then, well-meaning questions spoken in love landed in ways that felt deeply invalidating. Some questions, like the ones about my absence or reticence, required difficult explanations at a time when I was still learning how to breathe and make it back.

Because I love the Kingdom community deeply, I carried a strong conviction about how faith is modelled. I was deeply fearful of my mental struggle being wide on display while I was serving.

That season held the most fragile, unfiltered version of me — one I did not trust myself to carry publicly.

Learning to come away

Stepping down from ministry was unexpectedly comforting. It allowed me to belong without performing, and to heal without the pressure of being strong for others. Rather than feeling like loss, it felt like grace.

I began to understand why Jesus Himself withdrew to pray alone in moments of deep anguish. He loved His disciples deeply, yet there were burdens He carried only before the Father.

In this winter, I learnt that discernment sometimes looks like waiting — allowing healing to take root before inviting others into what was still too fragile to carry.

Over nearly two years, there were days when Jesus felt achingly close, and days when everything felt silent. Being told I was perseverant became painful, because perseverance no longer felt like strength — only what was required to stay alive.

Outwardly, I could still show up. I knew how to work, how to respond, how to be present for others. But inwardly, something was quietly eroding. I was functioning — yet slowly wasting away under a weight no one could see.

I wrestled often with God. How much more pruning before it feels okay again? Weary from being told I was strong, I found myself praying simply: God, please don’t give up on me.

Gratitude became the song of my season. When I had nothing left to offer God — no clarity, no strength, no answers — all that I had was a hallelujah.

Jesus, I don’t understand — but I trust You.

The lowest point came after consecutive setbacks at work. Despite pulling late nights for weeks on end, I could barely hold myself together. On the commute home, everything finally spilled over.

Through tears, I asked God: Why does honouring what You have entrusted to me grieve me so deeply? Why does doing what is right feel this heavy? I had no words left to pray.

In that moment, God met me with a simple vision. I saw myself curled up in a boat in stormy seas, and Jesus was there with me. He asked gently, “Do you see that I am with you? Do you trust Me?”

I broke. I surrendered once more — not in how God would calm the storm, but in knowing He was with me in it. Peace came before my circumstances changed.

God’s not done

And then December came, unfolding differently, quietly and gently. Joy returned slowly.

In a way only God could orchestrate, my unbelieving family — after years of hardened ground — sat together on Christmas night watching a film about Christ, curious and engaged. It was a quiet miracle.

In that moment, it felt as though God whispered, “Child, look at Me. I have never stopped loving you. I have always known what is on your heart. Trust Me. I am still at work.”

After Christmas, each day began to feel like Christmas morning — not in spectacle, but in wonder. Gratitude softened my days, and a sense of awe I had lost began to return.

God was not finished yet.

In the weeks that followed, God prompted me to reach out for a long-overdue conversation with my leader. The reconciliation was open, warm, and tender. What was restored was not just understanding, but trust — arriving gently, in the right season.

On the first Monday of the year, despite feeling unwell and taking drowsy medication without setting an alarm, God woke me at 5.30am for church morning prayer. It felt like an invitation — a reminder that He delights in meeting with us.

It was never about legalism, or doing everything “right.” Spiritual disciplines matter as the means by which we grow, but the reward has always been Jesus Himself.

God was not keeping score. He simply wanted my heart — one that continues to pursue Him in full surrender, even when the path is quiet and unseen.

I have no answers for when healing or breakthroughs will come. For me, worship has always been the closest expression of love I know how to offer God.

If you are walking through a season where faith feels small or costly, you are not alone. God is still with you in the boat.

When nothing seems to be moving in the midst of the storm, faith sometimes looks like remembering — remaining present and keeping our eyes on Jesus. There is a quiet courage to lift up your song and still praise the Lord.

And sometimes, all that we have is a hallelujah — and that is still worship.