Us 4 S’more: Was there ever a time you thought mental health didn’t matter?
Sticky questions, personal answers:
The Religious Trauma Network’s team mashup.
Was there ever a time you thought mental health didn’t matter, or even felt uncomfortable talking about it? What shifted your perspective, and how has that impacted you or the way you support others?
Janyne McConnaughey
I was raised in a faith tradition that believed salvation could be “lost,” and so I probably prayed to be re-saved more often than most Christians. Then I changed to a faith tradition that believed salvation could never be lost. At that point, I no longer needed to be saved again and again. Did either path help me to lessen the inner turmoil that I erroneously believed was conviction? No, my internal turmoil never lessened from year to year, no matter how much I desired to follow God.
Neither of these traditions solved the problem of the deep inner turmoil and darkness that I could not explain. Since my entire life was lived within the church, albeit in differing doctrinal traditions, the message was the same. I simply needed to control myself better, be more disciplined, and try harder to use spiritual practices. So, I did just that, year in and year out, in spite of the fact that nothing improved. Not once—and I am amazed to admit this—did I question the basic assumption that the only things that mattered were spiritual in nature, and that being the case, believed all my problems had a spiritual solution.
Then, at the age of sixty-one, my inner turmoil overwhelmed me, and God prompted me to begin therapy, specifically, trauma-based therapy. Before I experienced this approach, I didn’t even know such a thing existed—or that the vague dark shadow flitting on the edge of my awareness was trauma trying to get my attention. For the next five years, my story of childhood trauma, which I had consciously and unconsciously repressed and denied, poured out in a million tears during a countless number of therapy sessions.
When I came out on the other side of this intense process of healing, I fully understood that my problems had never been spiritual. Unbeknownst to me, I could have found descriptions of these symptoms in information about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). The information I needed could never be found in biblical studies or doctrinal teachings. All the ways I struggled had been mislabeled and misunderstood. The struggles I endured were misjudged by me, my family, my employers, and church leaders. And sadly, that blocked me from fully experiencing the joy that is possible in a faith experience by those who have not been affected by trauma.
Luke Renner
There was a time when I didn’t just dismiss mental health—I didn’t even have language for it.
Within the religious world I was raised in, the mind was often seen as suspect, even dangerous. Prayer was the answer to everything, and anything that didn’t lead directly back to God was viewed with caution, if not outright disdain. We didn’t speak of therapy or trauma; we spoke of spiritual warfare. Anxiety, depression, intrusive thoughts—these weren’t understood as psychological phenomena. They were seen as evidence of sin, of weakness, of the need for spiritual renewal. The soul was what mattered. The mind, if anything, was part of the problem.
That framework followed me well into adulthood. But in 2010, everything changed. I had just spent four weeks in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, in the immediate aftermath of the earthquake, documenting the devastation. When I returned, I wasn’t the same. I didn’t know the name for it then, but I was living with PTSD. The symptoms were undeniable. My wife, who saw it more clearly than I did, finally said, “You can stay here and keep going like this, or you can come home and get help—but something has to change.”
By that point, I had already begun stepping away from the church. I no longer had religion rushing in to offer pat answers or to reframe my experience as a spiritual shortcoming. And without that familiar noise, I was finally able to hear the quiet, aching truth: I was suffering. Not spiritually. Physiologically. Mentally. Humanly.
That’s when I first made contact with the idea of mental health. Trauma. PTSD. Words and concepts that had never been allowed into my vocabulary suddenly became tools for understanding myself and what I was experiencing. That shift changed everything. I realized my pain wasn’t a spiritual failing. It was real. It was physiological. And it was treatable—right here, on earth, in this body. Not in heaven. Not after enough faith or prayer or surrender.
Only by stepping outside the religious framework was I able to encounter the reality of trauma on its own terms. And once I did, everything changed. I learned my pain was valid, that it could be named, treated, understood—and that healing was possible in this life, without having to spiritualize it away.
That realization didn’t just help me heal; it fundamentally changed how I support others. I no longer try to fix people with answers. I try to witness them with presence. I hold space for their pain without trying to reframe or sanitize it. Because I know now: the mind is not the enemy. It’s a place where healing happens, too. I know what it means to finally be seen, and I do everything I can to offer that same kind of seeing to others.
Rebekah Drumsta
During my formative years, I was taught that therapists were “liberal” or “new age,” and that what they called science was in competition with Scripture-always trying to set itself above God’s Word. The only legitimate reason to seek counseling was after a husband had an affair, and only if a couple wanted to save their marriage. That was the message, both spoken and unspoken, in my home and church. Words like stress, anxiety, depression, or worry weren’t seen as real health concerns; they were spiritual problems, pure and simple-issues to be solved with a Bible verse, a prayer, or a change in behavior.
At the same time, Christian parenting and marriage books were everywhere. (I should know-I worked at LifeWay Christian Stores for a while, and the shelves overflowed.) Most of these books were written by Bible scholars, preachers, or women who had “prayed their way” into a good marriage. The advice was always the same: follow the formula, and God would bless your family.
But when I got married, it didn’t take long to realize our relationship didn’t fit the formula. I devoured every Christian marriage book I could find, desperate for answers. But all they offered was the same refrain: work harder, submit more, pray more, give your marriage to God. When I became a mother, I found myself instinctively parenting differently than how I’d been raised, and the questions inside me only grew louder.
Eventually, my distress pushed me to seek help. This time, I found a Christian Biblical Counselor-a title that finally felt “safe” enough for me to consider. He was a kind man who introduced me to words and concepts I’d never heard before. He gently pointed to patterns from my childhood and family of origin that might not be healthy. His curiosity gave me permission to be curious about my own story, and the new vocabulary and ideas he shared became the push I needed. I started searching for different answers, and that search led me to a deeper understanding of mental health, psychology, faith and life.
I was never uncomfortable talking about mental health-I just genuinely didn’t have the words, understanding, or knowledge that saying, “I’m scared. I’m hurting. I’m sad. I don’t think this is right. I’m fearful. I’m feeling anxious,” could mean anything besides a spiritual attack, a lack of trust in God, or believing the lies of the world. But when you start to really understand those feelings, and begin to see yourself and what caused your pain more clearly, you often find that the rigid religious system you’re in isn’t prepared-or willing-to handle what comes next, at least that was my own experience.
It was a slow, sometimes painful process-years of untangling old patterns, systems, and mindsets. But I was determined to pursue truth and healing, no matter where it led. Looking back, it’s almost unbelievable: I went from believing mental health was a tool of Satan to confuse and mislead, to now advocating for others to learn about, care for, and embrace their mental health-because our minds, too, are Divinely designed and worthy of care.
David Ruybalid
Growing up, I had the impression that counseling was only for people who had experienced something really serious—things like abuse, divorce, or a major loss. Depression was acknowledged with compassion by family and community, but often framed as a spiritual issue. The message, whether spoken or implied, was that if someone could just believe the right thing about God, their depression would go away.
There were a few moments from my preteen years that shaped this understanding. I had a close family member who was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and I remember watching their spouse and our family love them, even through confusion and challenges. Around that same time, my parents separated and eventually divorced. I saw both of them navigate their pain honestly, and they both sought counseling. That left an impression, but even then, therapy seemed reserved for those facing “bigger” issues—not something everyone might need.
When I was 19, my dad sold the house I grew up in just as I left for a small Bible college. I didn’t have a home to return to, and something shifted in me that fall. I started feeling an unfamiliar heaviness, withdrawing from people, and battling loneliness I couldn’t shake. Then my aunt died in a tragic accident, and I didn’t know how to process the grief—mine or my cousins’. That same fall, I began to question many things about my faith in a deeply isolating environment. The deconstruction process had begun, and I no longer felt at home in a place that was supposed to be spiritually safe. I moved back to Colorado Springs, hoping for grounding.
Things seemed okay for a while—until about six years later. That’s when the pain of childhood sexual abuse I had experienced resurfaced in a powerful way. The heaviness and loneliness returned, but now I had a name for it: depression. And it was dark. It felt shameful to talk about. A friend gave me the number of a counseling center, but because I still believed therapy was only for people with “deep” trauma, it took me over a month to call. I felt ashamed, and I remember how awkward and vulnerable it felt just telling the receptionist what I was struggling with.
That was the beginning of learning more about how sexual abuse had shaped me. I started to understand trauma and its long-lasting effects on mental health—but it would take more time before I truly grasped how trauma lives in the body.
In 2019, I was serving as an associate pastor at a small church in California. My brother-in-law had hired me a few months earlier, but then the board suddenly had him fired. I became the only full-time pastor, working in the very system that had just pushed my family member out. I lasted 10 months, and it was one of the most traumatic seasons of my life. I went into survival mode. But strangely, it wasn’t until after I left that the anxiety really hit. I thought I would suddenly be okay, after I got out of that environment. My nervous system couldn’t calm down. I’d lie in bed convinced I was dying, and sometimes I thought dying might be easier than feeling what I was feeling.
Once again, I went back to what I had been taught with shame attached to faith: that I needed to believe something different, or that something was wrong with my faith. I played worship music, prayed, tried to press through what I thought was a spiritual battle. But nothing changed. Eventually, I reached out to a counselor. That’s when I began to learn what trauma does to the body, and how PTSD symptoms were showing up after being in high-stress survival mode for so long.
Since then, I’ve made it a mission to help raise awareness and reduce the stigma surrounding mental health and trauma—especially in Christian spaces. In Phoenix, I’ve worked with organizations, spoken on radio shows, helped launch a counseling center by offering space in my church, currently host Parent and Teen Mental Health nights to support families, and I preach very openly about mental health as needed. Understanding trauma and the nervous system hasn’t just shaped my ministry—it’s helped me be a more present and compassionate father and husband.
Visit the Religious Trauma Network Resource Page or our personal bios for additional support or resources.
This article is not intended to treat or diagnose any condition. The authors are not licensed therapists or clinicians. Any advice or opinions given on this site are strictly individual observation and insights based on personal experiences and study. It should in no way take the place of professional assistance.