When Staying Felt Harder Than Leaving

I almost walked away- not from Jesus, but from the version of faith I thought I had to keep holding together. This is the story of what met me on the other side of falling.

I remember the day like it was yesterday. Christmas was fa-la-la-la-la-ing into place, cheer swirling through the frosty air on the backs of sugar plum fairies mid-dance and somehow, I stood outside of it all. I was numb, actually. And I seemed to be the only one in the room who wasn't feeling the least bit festive. The voices of people chattering in laughter almost made me cringe, if I'm honest. The room buzzed with the quiet hum of the coffee machines in steady rhythm. String lights in full moody effecting were glowing softly against the walls and the smell in the air was fresh-brewed comfort. The atmosphere was alive with the sound of joyful holiday music pulsing vibrantly through the speakers. Life was happening all around me, except for at my table. I sat there feeling strangely lifeless, carrying nothing but guilt and a quiet resentment I couldn’t name. That was the day I almost walked away. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quietly… tired. I was tired of holding hope with blistered, worn out hands. Tired of believing when the story looked nothing like I thought it would. Nothing like the plan I trusted. The life I knew was unraveling and my faith that was once familiar felt distant and thin. Everything in me was tired, except the urgency to maybe not even walk, but run. I didn’t want to quit Jesus. I didn't want to let Him down, although I didn’t realize at the time I wasn't even holding Him up. I just didn’t know how to keep pretending anymore. I didn’t want to keep going in the facade that had become my life. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of who I was. Who was I, anyway? I didn't know anymore and purpose was slipping far from me. I was burning my candle at both ends and the built up wax was dimming my flame.

And maybe, if you’re honest, you know that kind of tired too. The kind of weariness you can’t really put your finger on and you don’t have a name for. The kind of exhaustion that holds onto hope with tired hands, quietly wondering how much longer you can keep going  on this way before you break. If you’ve been weary in ways you think no one else is able to see, I have seen it clearly- too. And, I see you.

And burnout has a way of disguising itself as   wisdom. It whispers things like “You’ve done enough,” “It’s okay to lay this down,” “Surely God understands.” Maybe He did, He doesn’t despise our questions. He helps us hold them captive to His Word, to the the truth. And what He didn’t do was release me. He would leave the ninety- nine to come after me. He didn’t ask me to run harder. He didn’t shame me for being weary. He didn’t demand that I fix what had fallen apart in and around me. He didn’t run from me when I was too weak to stand. He drew me near and held me in His arms with permission given freely- to rest. And He asked me to remain in Him. To stay long enough to see that what looked like the end was actually just a pause between sentences. I had fallen, hard. Publicly. Quietly. Completely. And still, He wasn’t done writing my story. He still isn't. This is the part we don’t talk about enough, the other side of falling. What it looks like when we are expected to navigate the new season as if nothing happened. And what it feels like in the tension of learning to live again, free.

The other side of falling isn’t an instant restoration that magically happens, it's work. Hard work that's not beautifully curated like a highlight reel we see on Instagram or a polished testimony wrapped in a tidy red bow. It’s messy and utterly healing, co-existing in the same space. The place where joy and grief collide in our hearts and whispers we’re held on our breath. It’s defiantly abiding when it feels easier for us to leave. Abiding in Him, even with our questions. Abiding in him through every disappointment. Abiding in Him when the calling looks different than it used to and our obedience feels smaller than it once did. One thing I learned that I will carry with me tucked away in my heart forever is, abiding has never been about perfection. John 15:4 says it best, “Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me.” It has always been about Presence. And Presence always wins.

I stayed. Not because I was strong, but because grace held me there as He was rewriting this part of my story. Not because I had answers, but because Jesus wouldn’t let me go. Slowly and gently, the way only He can. He began resurrecting things in me and in my life I thought were dead. Not back to how they were, but forward into something truer. This is the other side of falling. Where shame loses its voice. Where faith gets quieter but deeper. Where you realize He is just as present in the rubble as He ever was on the mountaintop.

And if you’re here reading this, I don’t believe it’s by accident. You are part of something God is growing. Even if it doesn’t look impressive yet. Even if it feels unfinished. Especially then! Oh, and If we haven’t met offically yet- I’m Brandy, but my friends call me B. After sharing this vulnerably quiet piece of my story, that’s now you too, my best gal! You’ll usually find me with my Bible open to Psalms, a hot lavender latte in my hand or nearby, (with three other drinks on tap because I am sometimes indecisive) and a heart that believes He still meets us right in the middle of our real life.

Your new internet bestie, cheering you along in biblical truth and faith that will withstand the test of time. A woman who has fallen, been met, and is still becoming. This space is for the ones who are tired but faithful. Burned out but still listening. Unsure, yet unwilling to fully walk away. If that’s you, I want you to know that you’re not behind. You’re not failing. You’re not forgotten. You’re on the other side of falling. And Jesus is still writing. And if this feels like…. she’s been here too- This is for you. For the ones who almost walked away. For the ones who stayed, not because they were certain, but because Jesus wouldn’t let go. For the ones learning that faith doesn’t always roar, sometimes it remains.

It’s where our path still carries the promise of His truth, tenderness, and quiet depth. It’s not an echoing of what once was to remind us of our past, but a sacred loosening for our present. A hushed becoming for whats next. It's trusting the weight lifted from our shoulders is telling our faith it doesn't have to scream the loudest to perform for our place. Where we know we aren't earning His love but living from it. Where nothing is rushed and staying is holy. If you’ve ever wanted to walk away but just couldn’t shake the fact that Jesus is still calling your name, welcome to the table. You’re loved more deeply than you’ll ever know. There’s a seat just for you, I’ve been saving it with your name on it.

Grace doesn’t rush our next chapter ahead of the pace of His grace. But it opens us to the next page of obedience along the way.

With wild hope+expectancy, B.