The Dog Days are Over

"I never wanted anything from you, except everything you had and what was left after that"- Florence + The Machine

*this is a revised version of my original post. I sat with the original for a few hours and decided it needed some clarity and changes.

Counting the Cost of Ministry – Part One

As far as I know, no one walks into church searching for hope, purpose, and belonging, like the signs and sermons so often promise, thinking they’ll end up, eight years later, writing about the cost of that search. And yet here I am.

This journey continues to evolve. With each post, the meaning sharpens, and the next steps come into focus. What I’ve found is that the most healing comes when I let myself look directly at these experiences instead of avoiding them, no matter how painful they are to name.

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Belonging at a Price

Looking back, I now see the first place I truly felt a cost: the children’s ministry team. I had ended up there unexpectedly. The class was advertised as a casual way to “learn more about the church,” but by the end, I’d taken multiple assessments and was ushered toward the nearest open ministry slot. I panic-picked the children’s prep team.

To my surprise, I found belonging there. The group was tight-knit, smart, down-to-earth, and inclusive. As someone who’s neurodivergent and often on the fringe socially, it meant something to feel welcomed.

But that belonging had a price: if you produce, you belong.

It was a subtle message, one I didn’t understand until much later, after watching others lose their place in the community because they couldn’t serve at the same pace. While I was trying to grow in my faith, I didn’t realize that something else was growing alongside it: the belief that I was only valuable if I was useful.

For someone with a long history of shame, that message wasn’t just unhealthy, it was dangerous. Unfortunately, it was also familiar.

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What Was Gained

To be fair, not everything was loss. Here’s what I gained during that season:

• A new confidence I didn’t know I had.

• Relationships that, at the time, felt incredibly life-giving.

• A fast-paced introduction to Scripture.

• The beginning of real self-exploration and healing.

• Exposure to some truly amazing people.

• A sense of belonging and hope for the future.

These things mattered to me, and still do. But over time, I began to notice a dark side to every gain.

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What Was Lost

When I thought I was healing, what I was actually doing was spiritually bypassing real pain. I stayed busy “for the Lord,” using Scripture like a painkiller instead of a scalpel. Bible verses like “lean not on your own understanding” became a way to silence my gut instincts instead of listening to them.

I did learn a lot about the Bible, but it was more like a crash course than a slow, grounded immersion. Sometimes I wonder if things would’ve turned out differently if I’d been given more time to just be before being asked to do. Maybe. But I think I would’ve reached the same point eventually, it just might have taken longer.

I was often told my identity should be “found in Christ,” though no one could quite explain what that meant. When paired with the idea that nothing in us is good apart from Jesus, it led me to erase myself entirely. I tried to wear my “faith” like a new coat, but honestly? It probably looked more like three raccoons in a trench coat. And I could feel it. Something was off.

I won’t go too far into the details of my past, but let’s just say I didn’t come from the cleanest background. I often heard people talk about “those kinds of people” without realizing one was standing right in front of them. The shame that created was crushing, and as a result I began digging even deeper into the spiritual disciplines to try to be better, to no avail. It only sank me deeper into a pit I didn’t even know I was in.

The growth of the church only increased the pressure that everyone felt to get more people on the team. When this part of the job was really stressful and everyone felt burnt out, we were told that burn out isn’t real. It must be some unrepentant sin that is hidden in our lives. It couldn’t possibly be an unsustainable ministry model that squeezed the life out of everyone present. I bought into this idea at first, and once again took out my shovel and tried to remove more of myself to put more “Jesus” in. Big mistake.

Again, I don’t blame the church entirely. I came in with a carload of baggage. But I do believe ministry leaders missed some pretty clear signs that I wasn’t okay. Maybe they ignored them. Maybe they were too busy. Or maybe they just prioritized the mission over the person, something I think happens far too often.

Eventually, I was hired on staff. What felt like a promotion at the time was, in hindsight, just a deeper entanglement. I served every single Sunday, four services, every Tuesday, all-in. If someone had been paying close attention, I believe there would have been hard conversations. But when everything you do is tied to “eternal impact,” no one wants to interrupt the hustle. After all, “the workers are few, and the harvest is plentiful.”

And to be honest, I didn’t know how to stop myself either.

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The Cost to My Family

One of the most painful parts of all this is what it cost my family.

Thinking I was doing the right thing, I brought my girls to church with me, week after week. Like many other staff kids, they spent long, overstimulating Sundays in crowded rooms. At first, it seemed fine. But over time, they grew miserable. They began to resent my presence at church. That’s on me. And they still carry that resentment today.

I wanted them to have a better relationship with church than I did growing up. What actually happened was the opposite. And that heartbreak is hard to put into words.

Some may say, “Well, that’s your fault, not the church’s.” And to a degree, they’d be right. I do own it. That’s why I write this, not to cast blame, but to offer a warning.

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Why I’m Telling This Story

I don’t write this because I think I’m special or unique. I write it because I know I’m not.

And I know there are people who would love for me to (pardon my French) shut the hell up. But I can’t. Because too many people already have. Too many have reached out to say, Me too.

Stay tuned for Part Two.