It is easy to write a nice blog post about "letting go" and "giving it to God." It sounds holy, clean, and complete.
But the reality? It’s terrifying. When you are sitting in the middle of it—trapped in cycles with toxic family, terrified that the abuse you have experienced in the past is a preview of what you'll face when you have children, and running into work or trying to flee the state just to escape an environment where nothing changes—telling someone to "just give it to God" feels hollow.
Resting in God sounds great on paper, but when you are drowning in anxiety, resting feels like letting go of a cliff when you don't know if a net is waiting.
"His Yoke Is Easy"—So Why Does It Feel So Heavy?
Jesus tells us, "Take my yoke upon you... for my yoke is easy and my burden is light."
And I’m sitting here thinking: No, it isn't.
My struggles are real, they are hard, and they are heavy. I am a pediatric nurse trying to do all the things—working full-time, transitioning to my FNP, volunteering, planning a spring wedding, trying to break generational curses, and managing my own mental health. When I look at my family tree, the fear isn't just an abstract thought; it’s a medical reality. My biological mother and grandfather both battled schizophrenia. One of my deepest, most agonizing fears is my own mind—wondering if my intense drive, my hyper-self-awareness, and my spontaneous escapes are early signs of breaking down, or if I am truly walking in faith.
When you live with that level of fear, you don't just "switch it off" because you read a Bible verse. You carry it into your kitchen, your arguments, and your sleepless nights.
People ask how I write these pages, how I share these thoughts. The truth? I am figuring it out in real-time. I write from the messy middle, not from the mountaintop. I don't have all the answers. I still get scared, I still want to run, and I still struggle to hand over control because my trauma tells me that if I stop paying attention, everything will fall apart.
If you are reading this and wondering how you're supposed to trust God when your chest is tight and your life feels stuck, I want to tell you: You start right where you are, with your trembling hands and your unanswered questions.
A lot of your fears reveal where you trust God the least
When you are desperate for comfort and don't even know which pages to open, the Bible doesn't offer cheap platitudes; it offers a place for your pain. If you don't know where to begin, here is where you can start:
For the overcomer who is completely exhausted: Read Psalm 61. David cries out from the ends of the earth with a fainting heart, saying, "Lead me to the rock that is higher than I." He doesn't pretend to be strong; he asks God to carry the weight when he can't.
For the fear of your own mind and family history: Read Psalm 139. It reminds us that even in our innermost parts—our DNA, our genetic fears, the hidden corners of our minds—we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and God's thoughts toward us are more than the grains of sand.
For the paralyzing weight of anxiety and the urge to control: Read Lamentations 3:21-26. Jeremiah is looking at complete destruction and grief, yet he anchors himself in this: "Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed... His compassions never fail. They are new every morning."
For the raw anger of unmet expectations: You can read Job and even my own study on the Book of Job. Job didn't get a neat, tidy explanation for his suffering right away, but he brought his raw, unfiltered agony straight to God—and God met him in the whirlwind.
How do I keep going?
I keep going not because I am not terrified, but because I admit that I am. I stop pretending that faith means an absence of fear. I bring my messy, racing thoughts, my complicated relationships, my genetic fears, and my running shoes right to God, and I say, "I am scared out of my mind, and I don't know how to let go. You’re going to have to pry these things out of my hands Yourself."
I don’t have to have it all together to be loved by Him. And on the days when letting go feels impossible, God’s grace is big enough to hold me—even while I am still shaking.