I’ve felt it more times than I’d admit, like the whole world’s weight is draped over my shoulders. Not the kind of weight you see, but one you feel, in your bones, your heartbeat, your every breath. Sitting still in a quiet room, yet thunderous pressure resonates: “How do I make even a small impact? Will my faith hold? Is there even space left for me to matter?”

I remind myself: this is not just me. It's us. More than 970 million people worldwide live with a mental disorder, nearly one in eight people, and anxiety and depression top the list (WHO). Among those aged 5 to 24, the prevalence is 11.6%, meaning over 293 million young people face this burden (JAMA Psychiatry).

By mid-2025, the WHO reported that more than a billion people globally are affected by mental health conditions, with suicide claiming 727,000 lives annually and the economic toll, €850 billion lost in global productivity (Cadena SER). Depression and anxiety alone cost us 12 billion working days every year, amounting to US$1 trillion in lost global output (WHO).

This data doesn’t just illustrate statistics, it reflects the collective ache I carry, and perhaps you do too.

A Real Story: The Weight I Carry

Work lately has been heavy. We had someone quit, and now I’m carrying their responsibilities on top of my own. Financially, I’ve been hit with the perfect storm, moving costs, car issues, and fresh medical bills.

On top of that, streaming, something that has been my heartbeat for nearly eight years, feels different now. When I first started, it was pure joy, passion, and connection. I loved every moment of building community, sharing laughs, and letting the world see the authentic me behind the screen. But lately, I find myself wondering: Do I keep going and push through the hard times? Or do I hang it up?

Mentally, I don’t feel as sharp or energized as I once did. It’s like the sparkle has dimmed, not gone, but not as bright. And that’s hard to admit when something that once fueled me now sometimes feels like another weight on my shoulders.

And in my faith, I find myself calling out like a man stranded at sea: “God, I’m gassed. I can’t go much longer. Rescue me. I surrender onto Your mercy.” It’s not poetic, it’s desperate. It’s raw. And it’s the most honest prayer I can muster.

When I’m at the edge, I reach for prayer. I whisper, “Lord, feel heavy today.” And in those silent pauses, I’m reminded of Philippians 4:6–7:

"Do not be anxious about anything... and the peace of God... will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

It’s not a magic wand that erases the weight. It’s a magnet that pulls me back toward hope, even when every step feels like climbing Mount Sinai.

Sometimes my faith feels less like standing tall and more like crawling forward on scraped knees. But maybe faith is less about looking polished and more about refusing to stop crying out.

Living in the Grey

I can’t promise that this burden, the longing to be authentic, to make a difference, to live out faith in raw, tangible ways, will ever evaporate. And that realization terrifies and liberates me. Terrifies because it means living with messy humanity. Liberates because in admitting I’m not “there yet,” I give permission to keep trusting, keep praying, keep moving.

Finding Small Beams of Light

• Connection matters: A Deloitte study spotlighted workplaces that prioritize mental wellness—like providing monthly coaching or mental health first-aid—seeing 40%–60% higher productivity and a big boost in staff retention (FT).

• Reducing burnout works: A global trial of a four-day workweek showed 67% less burnout, 41% better mental health, and 38% improved sleep, with over half of participants feeling more productive (Business Insider).

• We’re not islands: Stigma still silences many—62% of adults don’t talk about their stress because they don’t want to burden others (APA). But honesty plants seeds of healing.

So here’s where I’m at: I’ll keep whispering prayers, choosing one act of kindness, speaking up for mental wellness, reaching for connection, embracing the tension of not-being-okay while trusting God is refining something deeper in me.

Streaming may not feel as light as it once did, but it still connects me with people who need encouragement, just like I do. I may feel overwhelmed, but I’m still showing up. That’s enough for today. And maybe together, it will be enough for tomorrow.

I don’t have this journey figured out. Maybe that’s the point. The struggle is real, the longing is raw, and the path isn't neatly resolved. But in the tension, in the quiet cry and the stubborn flicker of faith, something alive is stirring.

Sometimes the bravest act is to acknowledge: I’m still here. I’m still trying. And my faith whispers: there’s more ahead.