20 Years in the Wilderness

I lost my faith when I was 16.

Up until then, I tried to believe. I really did. I prayed. I hoped. I begged God to show up—to protect me, to intervene, to do something. But He didn’t.
Not in the ways I thought I needed.
Not in the ways that would’ve made the pain stop.

So, I walked away.

I didn’t make a big announcement. I didn’t slam a Bible shut or curse the heavens. I just stopped expecting God to show up… because I was tired of being disappointed. What followed was twenty years of silent anger. Of pretending not to care. Of secretly hoping I was wrong and deeply fearing I wasn’t.

People would talk about God’s love and all I could feel was, Where was that love when I needed it most? Where was He when I was hurting? When I was being hurt? Why didn’t He do something?

For two decades, I carried that ache like a stone in my chest. I smiled on the outside, but inside I was bitter, shut down, and hopeless. Not the kind of hopeless that cries out—but the kind that goes numb. That says, "I’ll figure it out myself, thanks." But I never really did.

It wasn’t until much later—when the silence inside me got too loud to ignore—that I started talking to Him again. Not because I trusted Him, but because I had nothing left. And in that emptiness… something shifted.

But I’m not here to wrap this up with a tidy bow.

I’m posting this for the ones who still feel forgotten. For the ones who have wandered long and far and maybe don’t even know what they believe anymore. You’re not alone in that. I get it. I lived it. Some days, I still return to those questions.

This wilderness? It’s brutal. But it’s honest. And sometimes honesty is the only offering we have.

If you’re here, still angry, still searching, or still silent—your story matters. And you’re not the only one asking where God was.

I did too. For twenty years. ❤️