Chapter 4 -The Second Desert

I moved to Manhattan, Kansas in 2018 to serve as a missionary. That first year was everything I had hoped for. I felt alive—full of joy, energy, and a deep sense of purpose. I was discipling others, teaching about spiritual growth, and building relationships that felt genuine and impactful.

In many ways, I was living the dream I had carried since I was 27—the same one that took me to Brazil. The only difference was that it was unfolding in the U.S., not Portugal. Still, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I loved the work. I loved the people. I was all in.

But over time, things began to shift.

It wasn’t sudden. There was no dramatic collapse. Just a slow, steady unraveling. The kind you don’t notice until one day you find yourself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering where the joy went.

By 2021, I hit a wall. And not the kind of wall you push through with a little motivation and a strong cup of coffee. This was deeper. A full-body, soul-level shutdown. I was still doing the right things—praying, showing up, leading—but inside, I was stuck. I couldn’t feel the connection I once had. I wasn’t growing. I wasn’t thriving. I was just surviving.

I started asking God, “What’s happening? I’m seeking You. Why do I feel so far away?”

That’s when something unexpected happened.

A traumatic memory from my childhood surfaced—something my mind had completely blocked in order to cope. I had no conscious awareness of it, but once it came up, so many things started to make sense: the emotional heaviness I couldn’t name, the undercurrents of fear, the resistance I felt in places that once brought life. My body had been carrying the truth long before my mind could understand it.

That moment cracked something open. Suddenly, I was no longer just tired—I was overwhelmed. I was diagnosed with depression and burnout again. But this time, it wasn’t just ministry fatigue. It was trauma. It was spiritual confusion. It was emotional overload that had been building for years.

That’s also when I discovered that I’m a Highly Sensitive Person.

It helped explain so much—why I picked up on the smallest emotional shifts in a room, why certain environments drained me, why I carried the weight of other people’s pain even when I didn’t mean to. I realized my nervous system processed everything at a deeper level. Bright lights, loud noises, emotional tension—it all came in amplified.

But it wasn’t just about sensitivity to my surroundings. I felt things deeply. I noticed what others missed. And I absorbed more than I could always handle. That sensitivity wasn’t a flaw. It was a part of me that needed care and protection, not suppression.

No wonder I needed quiet spaces, naps, soft blankets, heating pads, chamomile tea, and long stretches of solitude to feel grounded again. My nervous system had been living in overdrive for years.

This was my second desert. But unlike the first one—I wasn’t walking through it alone.

This time, I had tools. I had therapy. I had spiritual direction. I had a few safe people who weren’t afraid of my questions or my unraveling. I had a sabbatical. Most importantly, I had a deeper relationship with God—not just based on what I’d been taught, but on what I had experienced for myself.

So I stepped away from leadership. I stopped trying to fix or manage anything. I gave myself permission to rest. I took naps without guilt. I spent afternoons crocheting. I watched shows that made me laugh and let myself be still. And for once, I didn’t feel like I had to earn the rest I was receiving.

The surprising part? I didn’t feel guilty. I was too tired to perform. And that exhaustion, strangely enough, ended up becoming a doorway. It forced me to stop striving and start trusting. I remember thinking, “If I’m doing something wrong, I trust Jesus will tell me.”

He didn’t come with correction. He came with presence.

That season of rest didn’t just heal my body. It began to rebuild the way I understood God. I no longer saw Him as someone waiting for me to get it right—I saw Him as someone willing to sit with me while I couldn’t. The Holy Spirit wasn’t measuring my output. He was anchoring my soul.

I began to see things I hadn’t fully admitted before.

I realized how deeply I longed for belonging. How much safety in relationships mattered to me. I learned that having my own home—even a simple, cozy rental—felt sacred. It grounded me. It gave me space to be.

I also started to see that my sensitivity wasn’t something to overcome. It was something to honor.

But there was something harder I had to face, too. I had been performing more than I realized.

Not in a showy or insincere way—but in a subtle, internalized pattern of becoming what others needed me to be. I had shaped myself around the expectations of others, thinking it was love. Thinking it was faithfulness. But underneath, there was fear.

I was afraid that if I wasn’t needed, I’d be forgotten. That if I didn’t show up, no one would reach out. So I made myself useful. Indispensable. Available.

Not to manipulate. To survive.

And slowly, I began to untangle the truth: needing to be needed is not the same as being loved. That belief had been running deep, and it was shaping the way I related to everyone—including God.

If all of this had surfaced years earlier—back during my first desert, or even in my house church years—I wouldn’t have been ready for it. My theology was still rigid. My sense of self was still tied to performance. And my image of God, while healing, was still being reshaped.

But Jesus never rushed me.

He knew what I could carry, and when. He knew how to walk with me slowly, gently, and consistently. His presence wasn’t conditional. His kindness wasn’t performative. He didn’t look at my exhaustion with disappointment—He looked at it with compassion.

That’s the Jesus I’ve come to know.

And no, I’m not describing a soft or watered-down version of Jesus. I’m describing the real one—the one who sees beneath the behavior to the story behind it. The one who understands what shaped us. The one who brings truth, but does it with mercy. Who convicts without condemning. Who calls us out of hiding, not with fear—but with love.

This is what saved me.
And it’s what continues to shape me today.

To Be Continued

Next: A seed was planted… and the calling I thought I had lost began to stir again.