There’s a certain kind of loneliness that doesn’t feel like being alone in a room. It feels like being alone in a crowd. It feels like disappearing in slow motion—and realizing no one noticed.
That was this season for me. The season when my mental health collapsed, my friendships shifted, my support system thinned out, and the people I thought would show up… didn’t.
This isn’t a post about pointing fingers. It’s a post about the quiet ache of unmet expectations. The weight of invisible battles. And what God has been teaching me in the silence.
Psalm 142:4 says, “Look to the right and see: there is none who takes notice of me; no refuge remains to me; no one cares for my soul.”
Those words felt a little too familiar.
When I Disappeared—and No One Really Asked Why
When my medication stopped working, everything fell apart at once. I went through a detox. I was raw. Fragile. Barely functioning. I stopped serving at church. I stopped showing up on Sundays and Wednesdays. I stepped back from everything. And the silence that followed was loud.
A few people checked in—but usually only after someone else mentioned my absence. The conversations felt polite, not personal. Kind, but not connected. Well-meaning, but not intentional.
I didn’t need a parade. I didn’t need a meal train. I didn’t need anyone to fix me. I just needed someone to notice.
But here’s what I’ve realized:
The church is made up of people—imperfect, busy, sometimes awkward people who don’t always know what to say or do. I’ve been that person too. I’ve missed the signs in others. I’ve failed to show up, not out of malice, but out of uncertainty or distraction.
Sometimes the church gets it right, and sometimes it doesn’t. But it’s still God’s idea. It’s still a place where healing can happen. I’m learning to give grace and to keep showing up, even when it’s hard.
If you’ve ever felt alone in your pain—even in the middle of a church family—you’re not alone. But don’t give up on community. Don’t give up on the church. Sometimes healing takes time, and sometimes it starts with us reaching out, even when it feels risky.
Romans 12:15 says, “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.”
May we learn to do that for each other, even when we don’t have all the answers.
When Friendship Changes—and the Part I Wish I Could Undo
Around the same time, I lost a friendship I deeply valued. I won’t share all the details here, because that’s not the purpose of this post. What matters is this: A season of organizational drama—pressure, misunderstandings, frustrations, and shifting dynamics—got between us. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, what we built as friends cracked. And I regret that.
I regret letting stress and outside voices cloud a friendship that once felt safe.
I regret the moments I reacted instead of slowing down.
I regret the things I should have said differently—and the things I didn’t say at all.
Looking back, I wish I had protected the friendship more fiercely instead of letting circumstances pull it apart.
Proverbs 18:24 says, “A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”
For a while, she was that friend, and losing her didn’t just hurt—it left a vacancy in places of my heart I didn’t realize she filled. The hardest part is: I don’t even know where to begin healing it.
I’ve had moments where I wanted to reach out but froze, unsure if it would help or make things worse. Knowing what to say is hard. Knowing what not to say is sometimes harder. And the longer the silence stretches, the more intimidating reconciliation feels.
But here’s what God has been teaching me: Sometimes healing starts with admitting your part. Sometimes reconciliation begins before the other person responds. Sometimes humility is the bridge that trauma tried to burn.
Romans 12:18 says, “If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.”
I can’t fix the past. I can’t undo the decisions I made under stress. But I can own my part. I can stay open to reconciliation. I can keep my heart soft instead of guarded. I can want healing more than I want to be right.
And for now, that’s where I am — not with a tidy ending, but with an open door.
When Your Spouse Becomes Your Only Safe Place
In all of this, Matt became the one steady constant.
He carried my emotions when I couldn’t. He listened when I spiraled. He stepped in with the kids when my mental health dipped. He checked on my mood before asking a simple question. He covered responsibilities when I couldn’t. He bore a weight he shouldn’t have had to bear alone.
He has someone to lean on—his best friend. And I’m grateful for that connection in his life. But it made me realize something I didn’t want to admit: I don’t have a “person.”
Not the friend you can text without overthinking. Not the woman who sits beside you in the mess. Not the one who sees past your smile and asks how your heart is doing. Not the one you can weakly knock on the door of and know she’ll open it. And at 34 years old, that feels embarrassing to say out loud.
Ecclesiastes 4:10 says, “For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up!"
I fell. And outside of my marriage, there wasn’t anyone to lift me up.
What Community Often Misses About Mental Health
Faith communities are beautiful places of support. When someone experiences a significant event, such as the birth of a baby, a surgery, a loss, or a crisis with clear boundaries, the church responds with meals, prayers, cards, and a presence. That kind of love is real, and I’ve experienced it many times.
But long, complicated emotional battles? The ones without timelines, without announcements, without a clear “we know what to do here”?
Those are harder for any community—not because people don’t care, but because most of us simply don’t know how to walk into a struggle we can’t fix.
Hebrews 10:24–25 says, “And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near."
Encouragement requires presence, and presence requires intention.
What I’ve learned is this: when someone is drowning in mental or emotional pain, they usually can’t raise their hand and ask for help. Pain quiets you. Shame isolates you. Exhaustion convinces you that reaching out is a burden to others.
It’s not that the church didn’t care about me. It’s that I was too overwhelmed to say, “I’m not okay,” and too lost in the fog to know how to let people in.
And I think many moms walking through deep valleys experience this too. It’s not a failure of the church; it’s a reminder of how much we all need grace, awareness, and gentleness—especially in the struggles that don’t make themselves obvious on the surface.
What I Learned Walking Through Loneliness as a Mom and a Believer
This season taught me a few things I didn’t want to learn—but needed to.
1. Silence from people doesn’t mean silence from God.
Even when the texts didn’t come, Scripture did. Even when no one checked in, the Holy Spirit did. God never stopped seeing me.
2. Not everyone who loves you knows how to walk with you in the dark.
And that’s not always their fault. It’s simply inexperience.
3. Community is something we build—not something we wait to receive.
I can be frustrated that people didn’t check on me, but I can also choose to be the kind of woman who checks on others.
4. I need people—but not just any people.
I need women who value vulnerability, depth, honesty, and Scripture. Women who aren’t afraid of long battles or slow healing.
5. Jesus is not a backup friend.
He’s the faithful one who stays even when everyone else is unsure.
To the Mom Who Feels Invisible at Church
If you’ve ever sat in a pew and wondered if anyone would notice if you weren’t there—
If you’ve disappeared from a ministry and no one asked why—
If you’ve walked through something heavy and the silence felt like abandonment—
If you’ve lost a friend and questioned your worth—
Hear me:
- You are not invisible.
- You are not too much.
- You are not alone.
And you are deeply loved by the God who never misses a moment of your pain.
Matthew 11:28 says, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
When the church doesn’t know what to do—Jesus does.
When friends walk away—Jesus stays.
When you feel unseen—Jesus sees you.
And while I still hope for that “person” one day, I’m learning to rest in the One who never left to begin with.
Reflection Questions
- Have you ever felt overlooked or invisible in a season of struggle?
- What expectations of friendship or church community have left you hurt?
- How can you begin rebuilding connection in a healthy, intentional way?
- Where have you seen God’s presence most clearly in your loneliness?
A Prayer for the Mom Who Feels Invisible
Father, thank You for seeing me even when others don’t. Heal the wounds left by silence, disappointment, and unmet expectations. Bring safe, trustworthy relationships into my life. Give me the courage to reach out again, the discernment to know who is safe, and the humility to receive help when I need it. Remind me that I am never unnoticed, unloved, or alone— because You are with me in every valley. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
This is the sixth post in the “From the Trenches” series—a raw, unfiltered look at faith, failure, and finding hope in the valley. If this post resonated with you, I’d love to hear your story. You can comment below or reach out privately at danece@momleavesalegacy.com. You’re not alone in this fight. 🩷🩵