“Coming Out” as Christian
I didn’t know that obedience would cost this much.
I thought surrender would bring peace — and it has, but not without pressure.
When I launched into my new calling — publicly aligning my professional life with my faith, openly declaring that I now treat clients from a Christian perspective — I expected gratitude, maybe even support.
What I didn’t expect was the kickback.
It came quickly, like spiritual whiplash.
Old fears resurfaced.
Whispers began.
Doors that once opened easily began to close.
And the enemy — oh, he wasted no time reminding me that courage comes with consequences.
Because when you declare the name of Jesus in a world that prefers silence, you start a war — not with people, but with powers and principalities that hate freedom.
And when you start using your own brokenness as evidence that God still heals, hell pays attention.
The Launch that Shook the Ground
When I made the decision to stop separating my faith from my clinical work, it wasn’t a marketing move.
It was a rebellion against fear.
For years, I had compartmentalized — therapist here, believer there.
It felt safer that way.
But God began to whisper: “I didn’t call you to play safe. I called you to make people whole.”
So I said yes.
Yes to merging my clinical skill with the Word of God.
Yes to being the kind of clinician who prays before a session and believes that healing isn’t just cognitive — it’s spiritual.
Yes to being bold enough to say “Jesus” in spaces that have sterilized Him into silence.
But the moment I stepped into that yes, the warfare began.
Colleagues who once called me “balanced” now call me “biased.”
Some Christians question whether my past disqualifies me from leading anyone.
Others say I’m “too emotional,” “too transparent,” “too much.”
But I know what this is.
It’s not rejection — it’s resistance.
It’s the spiritual friction that comes when obedience threatens the enemy’s agenda.
The Cost of Being Unhidden
I spent years hiding my faith to protect my credibility.
Now, I spend days defending it to protect my calling.
There’s a cost to courage.
You lose comfort. You lose people. You lose the illusion that faith will make things easier.
When I decided to be public about my Christian foundation, it felt like walking out of Egypt and into the desert — free, yes, but exposed.
Every insecurity got louder.
Every scar burned brighter.
I started to question myself all over again:
What if my past surfaces?
What if I say the wrong thing?
What if I don’t represent God well enough?
But the truth is, God never asked me to be flawless — just faithful.
He doesn’t need my polish; He needs my permission.
He uses my weakness to prove His strength.
“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9
So I stopped trying to be a spotless saint.
And I started showing up as a healed sinner.
The Power of Broken Witness
I used to believe my brokenness disqualified me from helping others.
Now, I understand it’s the only reason I can.
Because broken people recognize each other.
They see it in your eyes — that holy empathy that says, “I’ve been there too.”
And when I tell them about my past, when I tell them that I’ve been the woman sitting in the pew feeling too dirty to pray, or the wife who carried someone else’s shame, or the believer who loved God but couldn’t stand herself — they listen differently.
I no longer hide my scars when I counsel someone whose heart is splitting open.
I let them see them.
I let them know that every scar I carry has been touched by grace, that every mistake has been met by mercy, and that the same God who healed me can heal them too.
I tell them that trauma doesn’t define them — it refines them.
That sin doesn’t have the final word — salvation does.
That they don’t have to clean themselves up before coming to God — He meets them in the mess.
Because that’s where He met me.
Healing the Healers and the Hurting
Something happens when believers realize they’re allowed to be broken.
When they stop trying to be perfect Christians and start letting Jesus be their perfection.
That’s where the real healing begins.
Now, my practice is full of believers who are bleeding in secret.
Leaders, pastors, spouses, mothers, therapists — people who help everyone else but don’t know how to be helped themselves.
They come in with the same shame I once wore, terrified to speak the truth out loud.
And I tell them, “You’re not the only one.”
I tell them about a God who never flinched at my story, not once.
I tell them that they’re not too far gone, that their anxiety doesn’t scare Him, that their anger doesn’t offend Him, that their tears are not proof of weakness but evidence of His presence.
Because I know what it’s like to need that kind of reminder.
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18
The Kickback of Calling
The kickback hasn’t just been professional — it’s been spiritual.
The moment you stand for truth, the enemy doubles his attacks.
He hits you where you’re most insecure.
He tells you you’re unqualified.
He tempts you to tone it down, to compromise a little, to go back to the version of yourself that didn’t make waves.
But I know his tricks now.
He’s afraid of exposure — not mine, his.
Because every time I tell my story, his power loses its grip.
Every time I bring light to the dark, his shadows shrink.
Every time I speak the name of Jesus in my work, someone else walks out of bondage.
He hates that.
And honestly, I’m learning to love that he does.
The Gospel in My Practice
People sometimes ask me, “Why are you so open about God? Doesn’t that alienate people?”
And I tell them: I’d rather alienate the proud than abandon the desperate.
Because the gospel is not bad psychology — it’s the medicine of mercy.
It’s not theory; it’s transformation.
When clients cry in my office, I don’t rush to fix them.
I sit in the ache with them, because Jesus sat in mine.
When they ask, “Do you think God can still use me?” I smile and say, “I’m sitting here because He used me first.”
There’s nothing professional about redemption.
It’s personal, it’s passionate, it’s messy — and that’s why it’s real.
The Courage to Stay Broken
Courage is not pretending you’re healed.
It’s letting people see you while you’re still healing.
I’m not afraid to say that I still wrestle with fear.
I still have days where I wonder if I’m enough.
But I’ve learned to stop despising the process.
Because God doesn’t use the “done” — He uses the doing.
He uses the clay while it’s still spinning on the wheel.
Every day I show up as evidence that God heals what hell tried to destroy.
And if He can do it for me, He can do it for anyone.
“For we do not preach ourselves, but Jesus Christ as Lord, and ourselves as your servants for Jesus’ sake.”
— 2 Corinthians 4:5
The Theology of the Cost
When Jesus called the disciples, He didn’t promise safety.
He promised sacrifice.
He said, “Take up your cross and follow Me.”
The cross is heavy. It splinters. It cuts into the flesh.
But it leads to resurrection.
That’s what this season feels like — carrying something holy that hurts.
Losing some people. Gaining His presence.
Feeling misunderstood. But also feeling known.
The cost is real. But the calling is worth it.
The Benediction of Boldness
So, yes — I’ve lost things.
I’ve lost approval. I’ve lost ease. I’ve lost people who preferred my silence.
But I’ve found something better: the presence of God in the middle of my authenticity.
I’ve found the joy of watching other believers realize that being broken doesn’t mean being disqualified — it means being available.
I’ve seen hardened hearts soften. I’ve watched tears turn into worship.
And every time someone tells me, “Your story helped me believe again,” I know the cost was worth it.
Because this is what courage looks like — not perfection, not applause — just a trembling “yes” that keeps saying it anyway.
“He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 1:6
So I’ll keep speaking.
I’ll keep treating the broken.
I’ll keep showing my scars, not as shame, but as proof.
Because if God can heal me, He can heal anything.
Reflection Questions for the Reader
- What has obedience cost you — and what might it be costing you not to obey?
- How has the enemy used fear of rejection or exposure to silence your calling?
- Have you ever believed your past disqualified you from ministry or leadership? How might God be asking you to turn it into your testimony instead?
- Where have you hidden your faith to keep others comfortable? What would it look like to launch boldly anyway?
- In what ways could your brokenness become someone else’s healing?
- When you face resistance or “kickback,” how can you discern whether it’s rejection or spiritual warfare?
- What would it mean for you to live unhidden — to let others see your scars as sacred evidence of grace?
- Can you trust that the same God who called you is strong enough to defend the calling He gave you?
Science and Spirituality 
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