#IWillStay

As a young girl navigating middle school, I often felt caught between two worlds. On one hand, I was striving to be the perfect Pastor’s Kid, constantly trying to live up to the expectations placed upon me. On the other, I was searching for love, acceptance, and belonging wherever I could find it.

Growing up with eight siblings meant there was rarely a quiet moment. Life on our small ranch was filled with adventure, imagination, and long days spent outdoors together. From the outside, our family appeared lively and close-knit. Yet even in a house full of people, I often felt alone. My relationships with my siblings never seemed to carry the same depth and vulnerability I longed for. Three of my siblings were nearly ten years older than I was, and because of the age gap, they often felt more like strangers than siblings. Among those of us still at home, relationships could shift quickly—one day you were someone’s best friend, and the next you were barely speaking. Those ever-changing dynamics made it difficult to build lasting closeness or feel emotionally secure within our family. I couldn’t explain it then, but I often felt like I was standing just outside the circle—close enough to see belonging, yet never quite able to experience it for myself.

Being a Pastor’s Kid only intensified those feelings. There was an unspoken expectation that I should always have everything together—that my behavior reflected not only on me, but on my entire family and my father’s ministry. I became consumed with trying to meet impossible standards because perfection felt like the price of acceptance. That pressure left little room to simply be a child.

When friendships ended, I struggled to grieve because disappointment felt like failure. When I experienced difficult emotions, I often felt ashamed for having them at all. Rather than learning who I was, I spent years trying to become the person I believed everyone expected me to be instead of embracing the person God uniquely created me to be. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of the person He had created me to be. Looking back, I realize how exhausting that constant striving truly was.

What many people forget is that Pastor’s Kids are still children. We aren’t immune to mistakes simply because our parents serve in ministry. Yet our failures often feel magnified, as though our humanity somehow reflects our parents’ faithfulness. At times, congregation members used my shortcomings to excuse their own children’s behavior. Without realizing it, those comparisons chipped away at my confidence and reinforced the belief that I would never quite measure up. And for years, I believed that if I could just become “good enough,” I would finally feel like I belonged.

Brené Brown writes, “A deep sense of love and belonging is a fundamental need of all people.” Her words resonated deeply because they gave language to something I had been feeling for years. I spent much of my childhood searching for belonging in all the wrong places. When that need goes unmet, it can leave wounds that shape how we see ourselves and how we relate to others. It took me years to understand that belonging cannot come at the cost of losing yourself. The acceptance I longed for could never be earned through perfection; it could only be found by embracing my authentic self, with both my strengths and my flaws.

During that same season of my life, my brother’s best friend, who was also a Pastor’s Kid, sexually assaulted me. He was an adult, and I was still a minor. When my adoptive family learned what had happened, they were understandably devastated. Yet despite their heartbreak, they struggled to see me as someone who had been exploited and harmed. They chose not to pursue legal action, and instead of feeling protected, I felt abandoned. The people I needed most during one of the darkest moments of my life were unable to give me the validation and protection I desperately longed for.

The months that followed were marked by overwhelming shame, confusion, and isolation. I questioned my worth, replayed every detail in my mind, and wondered whether my pain mattered at all. The weight became so overwhelming that I reached a breaking point.

With tears streaming down my face, I finally told my adoptive parents what had happened. They rushed me to the emergency room, a thirty-minute drive that felt endless. Somewhere during that drive, I lost consciousness, and everything that followed remains a blur. When I woke up in the hospital the next day, it felt as though I had surfaced from a deep, dark abyss. Physically exhausted and emotionally broken, I realized I could no longer survive by carrying everything alone.

Recovery didn’t begin with a dramatic breakthrough. It began with learning to take one small step at a time. Healing wasn’t immediate, nor was it linear. It unfolded slowly through countless small decisions—asking for help, allowing others into my pain, and gradually believing that my life still held purpose, even when I couldn’t yet see it.

Over the years, I’ve come to understand that trauma and mental health are deeply intertwined. Trauma doesn’t simply become a memory—it shapes the way we see ourselves, our relationships, and even whether we believe we belong. For years, it convinced me that I was unworthy of love, protection, and acceptance. Growing up in a church or a Christian home does not make someone immune to trauma, depression, or despair. Struggling with those realities is not evidence of weak faith or personal failure. Faith didn’t erase my pain overnight, but it gave me hope that healing was possible, even when I couldn’t yet see it for myself. It is part of being human.

For many years, my siblings and adoptive parents viewed my pain through a very different lens. They often dismissed it as attention-seeking or an embarrassment to our family rather than recognizing the depth of the trauma I was carrying. Growing up as a Pastor’s Kid, I often felt there was little room for brokenness because so much value was placed on having it all together. Whether that was the message they intended to send or not, it’s the message I received. Their response added another layer of grief to an already wounded heart.

One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned is that when people are denied the opportunity to express their pain, they often begin to believe their feelings no longer matter.

But they do.

Your thoughts matter. Your feelings matter. You matter.

Today, my life looks very different than the one I imagined all those years ago. I am blessed with a husband who loves me unconditionally. He has never withheld affection because we’ve disagreed, because I’ve struggled, or because I’ve fallen short. Through his love, I began to understand what healthy belonging truly looks like—to be fully known without constantly having to prove my worth.

Together, we are raising three beautiful children who fill our home with laughter, wonder, and purpose. Motherhood has become one of God’s greatest gifts in my healing journey, reminding me every day that even after our darkest seasons, life can still be filled with extraordinary beauty.

Healing isn’t a destination I’ve fully arrived at. Even now, there are days when old wounds ache more than others, but I’ve learned that pain does not get the final word. Looking back, I’m grateful that my darkest chapter wasn’t the end of my story. I would have missed the husband who loves me, the joy of raising my children, and the privilege of using my experiences to encourage others.

For years, I believed belonging was something I had to earn by being good enough, quiet enough, or perfect enough. Healing taught me something entirely different. True belonging isn’t found in someone else’s approval. It’s found in relationships where we are fully known, fully loved, and free to be ourselves. That realization has changed not only how I see my own life but also the kind of home I hope to create for my children.

When I was a little girl, I often felt like I was standing just outside the circle, wondering if I would ever truly belong. Even today, there are moments when those old feelings quietly resurface. Healing hasn’t erased every insecurity or answered every question about where I fit. But I’ve come to understand that belonging was never something I had to earn. It’s something I’m continuing to learn as I let go of everyone else’s expectations and embrace the person God created me to be. While I haven’t fully arrived, I no longer believe that my worth depends on someone else’s approval. That truth has become an anchor I return to, even on the days when I still struggle to believe it.

If you’re carrying pain in silence, I want you to know there is hope. Your story isn’t over. Your voice deserves to be heard. Your truth deserves to be told. And your life has immeasurable value.

If you or someone you know is struggling, help is available 24 hours a day by calling or texting 988 to connect with a trained crisis counselor. You do not have to walk through your darkest moments alone.

Healing from something so profound isn’t a straight path; it’s a winding road filled with setbacks and small victories. But I’m here today to tell you it’s possible to reclaim your story, voice, and life. Sixteen years ago, I could have missed out on so much beauty in this world had I chosen a different path. This realization—this awakening to the beauty around us—is a powerful force that can guide us through our darkest moments.
Some people will truly see, hear, and love you for exactly who you are—unconditionally, just like my husband did when he first fell in love with me and still does today. If you’re fighting silently, know this: you are not alone. Your voice deserves to be heard. Your truth deserves to be told. And you are worth fighting for.