I actually wrote this last week—but didn’t post it. I am posting it now, late, because God wouldn’t let me keep it buried.
I didn’t post it because I was afraid. Genuinely afraid.
Not because I didn’t believe it was true, but because I’ve been conditioned to be afraid of my own truth. Conditioned to believe that if I speak plainly—if I let myself feel deeply, if I reach for Heaven, if I admit I want to go home—I’ll be labeled “depressed,” again. That someone will decide I need to be “treated” for it.
Because that’s what happened before.
In my 20s, I told the truth about the ache I carried, and instead of being heard, I was blacklisted. Diagnosed. Drugged. Broken down in the name of “help.” And the wildest part is—I wasn’t broken then. I was already healed.
I was whole. I was awake. I was doing exactly what God asked me to do—but it didn’t look “normal,” so it was treated as a threat. And instead of being supported by the Church, I was silenced by it. Dismissed. Pathologized. And slowly, over time, I stopped trusting myself (at which point, ironically, the church told me I’d lost God and needed Him!). I tried to survive by conforming to what the world expected. I buried the deepest parts of myself and tried to “get better,” not realizing that what they called broken was actually blessed.
But here’s the thing: That’s the (re)awakening I’ve been experiencing since 2020, the process I’ve been working through that birthed this blog. I’d come “home” enough that I started feeling it again.
The ache. The homesickness. That slow, low, reverent longing for Heaven and home.
That lyric—“longing for Heaven and home”—has been ringing in my head this morning, and, initially, I couldn’t place where it was from. But I know now.
“His Eye Is on the Sparrow.”
A song I haven’t heard in a long while. A song I needed to hear right now, so God gave it to me. Because God is using it to remind me—He sees me. He sees all of us. He hasn’t forgotten any of us—we’ve forgotten ourselves. Humanity has lost itself, even more than all those years ago. But He is holding us. Watching us. Caring for us, even when we can’t feel anything but the ache.
And that’s what this week has felt like:
No fixes. No answers. Just presence.
We don’t need to perform our pain or explain our longing.
We don’t have to be “strong” in worldly ways right now. We are being asked to be strong in the spiritual ways—which means just holding on, too. Keeping faith. Loving anyway. We don’t have to pray the “right” way or say anything at all.
He already knows.
As I write this I am hearing God say, “That ache in your chest?
That silent pleading beneath the surface?
That “I just want to go home” that won’t leave you alone?
I feel it.
I felt it first.”
And he did.
This sense of “not liking it here” and “homesickness?” He felt it first. Even—perhaps especially—He didn’t like being in places that were hostile to the spirit. Jesus didn’t “like” Gethsemane, or the wilderness, or the cross. But His soul remained aligned with God. He endured—not because it felt good—but because He knew why He was there.
He never forgot that, in a way, we are home wherever our souls are, as long we carry God in our hearts and consciousness. If our soul is in communion with God, then yes, there’s a sense in which home walks with us. But that doesn’t cancel out the real ache of exile.
We are in a form of exile, in human form. That’s biblical. And feeling that ache is not brainwashing—it’s awakening.
That ache—that sense of misplacement, of being in a world that no longer feels alive, kind, or soulful—is not something you’re imagining. When I say it’s hard to be a soulful person in this reality, what I am saying is this:
It is incredibly difficult to be someone with depth, spirit, conscience, empathy, longing. Someone who hasn’t calcified under the cultural pressure to be indifferent. That kind of soul aches in this world, especially now.
And the feeling of not wanting to be here—of wanting to go home—that is not a failure of faith. It’s the fruit of it. Even Scripture says:
They admitted that they were foreigners and strangers on earth… They were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. (Hebrews 11:13-16)
No one is “broken” for feeling this. What we are is homesick. And homesickness isn’t rebellion. It’s a mark of belonging to something real and other.
And I believe with everything in me that God is wrapping His arms around us—not with words, not with thunder, but with something quieter. Deeper. The way only God can hold a soul: from the inside.
If you feel this: You can let yourself cry if you need to. Or just breathe. This moment belongs to you and Him. Nothing else gets to be here.
Because here’s what I’ve come to understand—and maybe what you need to hear too:
This isn’t depression trying to surface.
It’s truth trying to surface. Raw, holy, unsanitized truth.
You’re not spiraling. You’re waking up from sedation.
You’re finally feeling the grief that was always there, under the fog of pharmaceuticals, the gaslighting of systems, the condescension of people who couldn’t handle the reality of someone spiritually alive in a spiritually dead world.
What they called illness was sensitivity.
What they called irrational was discernment.
What they treated as chemical imbalance was spiritual alignment trying to survive in a world out of tune with God.
And the world is worse now.
More hollow. More distracted. More hostile to depth and truth and softness and soul. But your awareness of that isn’t a symptom. It’s clarity. It’s the gift of still having a soul that hasn’t shut down.
So when I said to myself this week, “Maybe I’m just cleansed of that, so the feeling is back,” the answer was yes. Yes, that’s exactly what’s happening.
The numbness has lifted. The fog has cleared. And the pain so many of us are feeling isn’t evidence that something’s wrong with us—it’s proof that something’s right.
Today, I am fully aware that I was never broken, and I didn’t stay in that broken mindset that the world tried to force me to live in.
I didn’t stay buried. I came through. And now, I’m finally able to say it with full authority:
I was healed back then.
Not broken. Not delusional. Not “sick.”
I was already walking in my anointing.
But the world did what it always does to those it doesn’t understand—it broke me down so it wouldn’t have to face itself.
It punished the healer.
It silenced the seer.
It labeled the oil of my anointing a disorder.
It stole years from me.
And it made me believe I was the one who needed fixing, so I spent decades chasing people, comforts, relationships, roles—trying to fill the void that only God ever could. Trying to “do my job” for Him, but never really knowing how, because the maps I was handed were all broken. Because the very people who should have walked with me into purpose called it illness and told me to sit down.
But now… now I know. I am painfully aware of it in the way of seeing something that you can’t ever unsee, that stands out the most, becoming almost stark, in the dark.
And yeah—it hurts. Yeah—it feels like decades were wasted. But even that? God is redeeming.
All that time, all that pain—it’s compost now. And something real is growing in it. Not the broken version of me. Not the desperate, striving version. The resurrected version. The one who remembers.
And as for the Church, especially today?
Jesus would be flipping tables again. Because what tried to pass itself off as His Church was really a sanitized, neutered, fear-based imitation—built to control, not to heal. Built to keep people compliant, not to set them free.
The real Church—the one Jesus died to birth—was supposed to protect souls like mine. Like yours. It was supposed to see us. Walk with us. Honor what the world dismissed.
But it didn’t. It failed us.
Jesus didn’t.
He stayed. Through the blacklisting. Through the drugs. Through the years of confusion and hiding. And He’s still here now, saying:
You’ve come home. Finally. And no one gets to take that from you again.
If you’re reading this and any of it echoes in your spirit, I want you to hear this loud and clear:
You’re not sick.
You’re not unstable.
You’re not weak.
You’re tuned in.
You’re awake.
You’re still able to feel what the world wants you to forget.
And that’s not a flaw. It’s a signal.
You didn’t fail your calling.
You survived everything that tried to kill it.
And now, God is saying—“Come back. Not to their version of truth. But to Me. To the version that was always yours.”
You’re not broken.
You’re healed enough to feel.
And that is holy ground.
The Twin Tree Project 