What To Do With The Feels. All Of Them.

 I am going to be painfully transparent for a moment…

Are you ready?

Alright. Please don’t judge me.

I am almost always preoccupied with fear that I might simply go crazy.


Drop my basket.

Crack up.

Bug out.

Melt down.

Wig out and spaz.

Oh, man. It’s the truth, though. Honest to goodness.

And here’s the thing: I think most women are afraid—silently, of course—of the same thing.

I don’t really understand the root of the fear, or why all the emotions are always there, bubbling just below the surface, ready to spew out all the nasty and crazy and tantrums that we stuff deep down. Hormones? Maybe. But we can only blame hormones for so long, right? Honestly folks, where does it all come from?
If you’re like me, the end result of hiding your basket of crazy is insecurity and anti-depressants. And guess what? I HATE TAKING MEDS!! I do. Well, I did…and now that I no longer take them, there’s this huge fear that I’m slowly losing my mind because I STOPPED taking what made me “normal”. No one wants to feel that they can’t manage to be “normal” without the help of chemical medications, right? That doesn’t make you feel confidant that you’re okay…or sane…or even—should I dare admit it?—a good person?

Hormonal imbalances?

Chemical imbalances?

Vitamin deficiencies?

Suppressed childhood pain?

Unresolved anger?

unchecked anxiety?

Who doesn’t deal with a handful of these? Or all of them? We are freaking human, right?

I wish I could just tell people, “My name is Gia…and I’m usually afraid that I’m not a good person…and that I’ll unravel one day into an emotional mess that can’t be put back together. What about you?”

Or, “My name is Gia. I’m angry. Super irritable and angry. I’m not sure why. What about you?”

If that doesn’t fly over well, maybe I can lead with, “My name is Gia. I barely make it through the day being a good mom…and when I lay down at night, I am convinced that I will do better the next day. If that doesn’t happen, I want to shrivel up and cry because of the heaviness of the failure. How about you?”

There are some days that I can barely hold onto all the feels. The weight of it is suffocating. And where is the joy? There isn’t any. That’s the problem. That’s the solution.

In Hebrew, “Joy” is Chadah, which means rejoicing—gladness, joy. The definition kind of comes with instructions: rejoice…gladness.

I don’t know what every other person’s story is. I can’t sit here and pretend to know the answer as to why some of us suffer greatly from depression or anger or anxiety. I don’t know your story, and I’m not even sure I understand the full scope of my story. But the hard truth that I am being forced to swallow is this:

There is a deep wound in my heart and the person I blame is God.

I cannot grasp the full measure of joy that I am meant to have. I cannot fully rejoice in God—not in a way that would bring healing and restoration to my body, mind and soul. I struggle with gladness. I struggle with peace. I struggle with love and affection. I struggle. Hard. Because I refuse to give ALL my heart to Him.


Seeing that last statement staring at me just made me realize I cannot adequately explain my thoughts in this little blog post—not without writing a book. There are too many reasons why I just had to admit that hard truth to myself. I’m sure a lot of it has to do with childhood heartbreaks that kept me holding God at arms length. And then all the heartbreaks that followed…

We are so broken, friends. I am so broken. I am a mess but also a woman that wants to love with all my heart, yet fails to love with all my heart because my heart hurts. I don’t know how to fix it, which causes anger and frustrations and anxiety and depression. I don’t know how to rejoice because my shoulders feel too heavy to even try at times. I don’t want to swallow pills hoping a cocktail of chemicals can heal it, because I know it can’t. I’ve tried that…and the heartache was still throbbing.


 I guess I just open my silly mouth and speak to Jesus.

“I’m hurting. I need you. Sometimes I don’t trust you, and I feel so bad for not trusting you. Sometimes, I’m afraid you won’t be there for me…take care of me…protect me. And I feel so bad for thinking such thoughts. Because you’re my God, you’re my father, you’re my creator! I should trust you. Right? And I want to…because I don’t like how I feel. So, today, I hand all this junk over and I’m going to try to ignore it. I’m going to close my eyes to the giant mountain of fear and failure that I usually cling to. I’m going to walk away from it. Just for today. Alright? Today, I am going to choose joy. I’m going to choose to rejoice in the fact that TODAY you will hold all my feels…all my pain…all my hurt…because You love me enough. Just for today, I’ll laugh instead. I will giggle and hold my babies tighter. I will snuggle up to my husband and let him snuggle me back. I will breathe.

Tomorrow, I can’t make any promises because I’m a pretty weak human, but I will try again to hand all my junk over to you. One day at at time, right? Each morning, if You would just whisper to my heart a gentle reminder, I will hand you all my crazy mess…and attempt to rejoice and have joy instead.”

That’s all I’ve got. That’s the only solution I can come up with. It’s easy to quote a verse and read an inspirational line from some smarty pants theologian. Me? I’m not a smarty pants. I’m just a mess that will fight with all my stubborn willpower to hand it over to Him every single morning.

Starting today.


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