Summer was over. We had just returned to our little west coast apartment after enjoying a visit with loved ones in Florida. Somehow we managed to sandwich a brief vacation in between nonstop summer school and fall classes. We had three years of seminary life under our belt and only one more to go. Tommy and I learned to cope with the little down time, little money and little living space. Our kids never knew differently. We learned the art of savoring simple pleasures like McDonald’s apple pies, free library videos and peaceful evening drives. Our ever-expanding family of five grew to enjoy and embrace this life as semesters came and went. We witnessed the faithfulness of God in marvelous ways as He cared for our every need.  

With graduation finally in sight, we dreamed of what was to come and hoped to soak up all that remained of our time there. Over the years we had concocted a very unchecked list of the touristy things we wanted to do before leaving California.  Hopefully our long awaited trip up north to the big Redwoods would materialize. Or maybe the San Diego Zoo or Tahoe slopes. During our plan making we even laughed about squeezing in one more baby while we still had good insurance. “Why not?” we pondered.

Just as classes got underway, I developed a serious infection due to a recurring breastfeeding issue. This led to a short hospital stay and a round of strong antibiotics incompatible with nursing. Between the exhausting illness and potent meds, we believed it best for me to wean our 8-month-old son. Without a second thought I abruptly ended all feedings. My body had been producing milk around the clock so discomfort was inevitable—but I knew it would pass. I simply wanted to get on with life and put the whole hassle behind us.  

Within days the infection began to heal. As my energy returned I jumped back into the swing of things, happy to roll up my stay-at-home mom sleeves again.  A few nights later I found myself struggling to fall asleep. This was a strange occurrence since I typically dozed off before the lights were even out. I awoke the next day puzzled by the experience but not the least bit concerned. I got into bed that night feeling beat, but surprisingly I did not fall asleep. Again, I lay awake for hours eventually drifting off just before morning. Waking up in a fog, I wondered what had provoked such a sudden disruption in my sleep.  

By the end of the week I reached a melting point as my sleep spiraled into a complete nosedive. Crawling out of bed after a grueling night, I broke down in Tommy’s arms. As we talked and prayed, he encouraged me to call a close family friend. Many seminary wives considered her a mother figure, including myself. She answered the phone to the sounds of sobbing as my composure collapsed. I finally managed to recount my terrible week of sleeplessness. She responded in a concerned voice, “Sarah, this is not you, something is very wrong.” She urged me to call my doctor, which I did without hesitation. 

Convinced my recent infection triggered the sleep disturbance, my doctor assured me the insomnia would eventually fizzle out. In the meantime, he prescribed a mild sleeping pill to take as needed. At last I obtained a little rest, but it proved short-lived. With or without the pills, my sleep remained unstable.  Hourly, this unexpected trial tested my body, mind and soul. The days painfully crept by while I dreaded each lonely and tortuous night.  

Although far from my best, I attempted to maintain some regularity about our home life for the sake of my family, but it grew harder each day. Our busy life with three young children could not compete with the relentless insomnia. Tommy frequently took off work and missed classes to relieve the strain on our family. As the pressure mounted, we fervently prayed for relief—and expected it. We hadn’t anticipated things getting worse.

One afternoon while I mindlessly dusted our living room, a wave of intense darkness suddenly engulfed me. The very light of my soul seemed extinguished and I felt trapped in a black hole. I found myself helpless to escape the unshakeable terror, no matter what I did or prayed. I called my husband in desperation. He prayed for me and left work early to take us out to dinner, hoping a change of scenery would direct my mind away from the struggle. The blackness slowly faded that evening and I sighed in deep relief. I would have gladly traded a thousand nights of sleep to avoid experiencing that again. It wasn’t long before we realized the harrowing encounter was merely a foretaste of what lie ahead.

The dark episodes continued to overtake me, unannounced and unflinching to my defenses. My stability started to unravel fast as life became a carnival of nightmares. I began to suffer from extreme anxiety, obsessive fears and compulsive thoughts—all the while with no relief from the chronic insomnia.  

My mental state became a constant frenzy of chaos. Unwelcome thoughts harassed me day and night. Troubling images plagued my mind like a song stuck on repeat. I avoided the TV and computer, afraid of being haunted by what I saw or read. I became hypersensitive to background noise. I could not bear the sound of a ticking clock, so my mother’s wedding gift had to come off the wall. Running our dishwasher terrified me as its incessant humming drilled through my brain—likewise the refrigerator motor kicking on and off. Even the trickling of the courtyard fountain threatened my sanity. 

My physical state rapidly deteriorated. Eating became a major chore as my appetite disappeared and clothes began to hang on me. The exhaustion and lingering side effects from sleeping pills made it hard to function normally, so I could no longer drive. We arranged for people to be with our children and me as much as possible because of my fragile mental and physical condition.  

We converted our bedroom into something like a bunker—sound proof, light proof and even child proof. Nightly, I retired there and lay alone with earplugs, black out curtains, and a rolled-up towel pressed against the bottom of a locked door. Tommy slept in the living room with our baby in an attempt to shield any interruption and protect my sleeping environment at all costs.    

In six weeks time only a semblance remained of my former life. Tommy officially withdrew from classes and the spring graduation we anticipated faded away like a distant memory. We had never been so blind-sided and watched helplessly as our life and plans seemed to fall apart. I held on tightly to whatever was spared in the rubble—my children, my husband and most importantly, my faith.  

I clung to God’s Word with every waking breath, plastering the walls with verses, even scribbling or taping them on my hands. I desperately fought to fix my thoughts on truth—the only stable voice in my mind. Everything seemed to shout my demise as I staked all my hope on God’s promises such as, “Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you.” Assailed with, “You will not survive this…” I repeated, “My heart and my flesh may fail but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” Grasping for my sanity, I even kept a card with these words written across, You are not crazy! At times I stared at it to keep myself from believing otherwise. 

Even with all we had faced together, a foreboding fear remained: “Perhaps we had yet to touch the bottom of this pit. Would Tommy be forced to abandon seminary, possibly even ministry? Would I end up unfit to care for my family or infinitely worse, taken away from them?” On several occasions I keenly felt only one slight nudge existed between me and a hospital bed. 

Then the day arrived, when in the words of Job, “the thing I greatly feared had came upon me.” We planned to attend church that morning but instead I lay crumpled on the floor in my husband’s lap with our children gathered around. Sobs of anguish shook my body as Tommy prayed over me with tears. The excruciating sleeplessness had issued its deathblow. My soul and body could endure no more. We paged my doctor and he advised me to check into the ER in the hope of securing a new prescription for some much-needed sleep.  

Lying on the triage bed, I encountered an onslaught of questions regarding my mental health. Panic set in as I realized the doctor wanted to admit me for a psychological evaluation. Instinctively I wanted to bolt for the door but I couldn’t forfeit my only option for immediate prescriptive help. The doctor insisted I spend the night, since the chair of their psychiatric ward would not arrive until morning—this left me terror-struck. Faced with an impossible choice, Tommy encouraged me to stay while he kept the kids at home. Every preceding moment of this trial had been bathed in prayer so we held fast our confidence that God would not lead us astray at such a desperate hour—no matter how counter-Christian and petrifying this all seemed. 

I begged the staff to put me anywhere but the psychiatric unit, knowing I was in no position to handle a potentially traumatic environment. Much to my relief, they complied. I faced the moment of truth as they wheeled me into a room and handed me a gown and booties. I was given a grooming basket but warned not to use anything without supervision. My worst fears of becoming a mental patient were unfolding before me.

I sat in eerie silence until noticing the big, ticking clock staring at me from across the room. In that moment, I was convinced this place would result in my final undoing. I scrambled for the small Bible in my purse and began to devour page after page of Scripture. I shudder to imagine that night without this God-sent escape.  Powerful truth washed over my dread and soothed my anxiety-ridden heart. I knew that if God could uphold me through this, He could sustain me through anything. I pulled up my blanket in peace, closed my eyes and securely rested in His faithfulness.

I met with the hospital’s leading psychiatrist the next day. After hearing me rehearse the past two months she confidently stated that I was in a textbook post-partum depression with classic symptoms such as insomnia, anxiety, loss of appetite and rapid mood decline. This was not a staggering revelation. We already felt sure that my abrupt weaning had caused the hormonal landslide I was experiencing. Her confirmation was reassuring but her prescribed solution was not. I later experienced a very adverse reaction to the dose of medication she recommended. 

In God’s perfect providence, this faith-testing turn of events paved the way to an amazing Christian doctor who firmly believed in the sufficiency of Christ and a conservative use of proven medicine when necessary. Up to this point we had tried every natural sleeping remedy known to man while bolstering my diet with the best depression-combating foods and supplements. I strongly resisted the idea of using any prescription other than a sleeping pill—which I reluctantly took and received little benefit from. After two long, miserable months, I could bear no more. We trusted this doctor and were willing to try whatever he recommended. And above all, we trusted God, continually seeking Him for help and guidance.

Our primary goal was to reestablish my sleep. Incredibly, the worst of my anxiety and dark spells had already begun to vanish as God’s Word gained control of my hijacked mind. But in spite of this victory, the insomnia hadn’t budged. My new doctor believed a low-dose anti-depressant could help me overcome the sleeplessness. After a rough week of adjusting to the medicine, we witnessed steady improvement in my sleep for the first time. Within three weeks, it gradually began to resemble normal. 

My sleep continued to stabilize, my appetite returned and my mind remained sound—thanks be to God and the power of His Word! I overflowed with immeasurable gratitude as each day brought further healing and restoration. Within eight weeks of starting the anti-depressant—with my doctor’s consent—I successfully weaned off the medicine without the slightest relapse. 

We stood in awe of God’s kindness and mercy. It was the first time I felt like myself in five months—even though I knew life could never truly be the same again. This rugged journey exposed unimaginable frailties in me. I no longer felt safe in the former myths I once rested in—that I was incapable of such instability and personal weakness. I discovered a new default: resting in the indestructible refuge of God’s perfect strength.

Three years past this trial, I am still daily impacted by it. Nothing in my Christian life has been more instrumental in drawing me closer to God. I have a greater confidence in His hold on my life and how He uses all things, even awfully hard things, for my ultimate good. Those truths have sustained me through subsequent times of testing and continue to grow my faith in significant ways.

Tommy and I now possess a much greater compassion for others in turmoil, especially those in the clutches of depression. I’ve prayed for battlefield wisdom to impart to anyone facing this dark struggle. I am keenly aware that we’d all be one breath away from an asylum if not for God’s mercy. Each happy and sane moment our Redeemer provides is cause for praise. No person, Christian or not, is safe from depression or a mental crisis. 

When the wrecking ball of depression hits, confusion and panic often ensue—especially when it happens unexpectedly. I was desperate for answers. My husband taught me to deal with what we knew and trust God for what we didn’t know, instead of frantically searching the Internet for help. Determining how we got here—and every confusing detail in-between—mattered little. Resolving how to trust God and move forward made all the difference.

Trusting in God’s promises was the only thing keeping me afloat in the floodwaters of despair. Like David, if I had not known His Word I would have perished in my affliction. The Word of God is depression’s greatest enemy.  Scripture won the battle for my sanity and hope. 

A very wise and compassionate pastor counseled me to resist morbid introspection and over-spiritualizing every aspect of my depression. Attempting to untangle each emotion or assigning some profound meaning to each struggle was an endless maze of confusion and distress. I found myself simply saying, "Lord, I am yours—me and all these struggles—we are all yours!"  

I learned how to grab hold of today's mercies for today's difficulties. Grace for the moment became my anthem. In the middle of a depression, one day at a time becomes one hour—even one minute at a time. Fear was always whispering, “The worst is yet to come.” Each day had enough trouble of its own, but God supplied every ounce of grace I needed. 

Depression is a dream-crippler. It dashed our hopes for more children. I couldn’t risk tampering with my hormones again. It killed our plans for a seminary degree. Tommy couldn’t finish school knowing that the pressure could derail my recovery. But “The counsel of the Lord stands forever.” One year later, we welcomed our fourth child as Tommy wrapped up his final semester in Seminary! 

I learned not to blame well-meaning friends or respond sinfully when they offered ground-shattering insight such as, “Try to think of something happy when you can’t fall asleep.” I needed life-anchoring assurance that God would see me through this trial, not casually tossed out platitudes. God helped me to simply smile, nod and thank them for their care and especially their prayers.   

There is a lot of sunshine even in the storm. Our family in Christ rallied around us in such touching ways. Baking cupcakes for my daughter’s birthday, assisting us with meals, cleaning our apartment and providing company when I needed it most. Even a simple gift of flowers for my windowsill added a bright spot in all the dreariness. The Lord also provided a dear sister in Christ whose medical background and personal battle with depression helped me invaluably. She walked me through every step and the darkest of moments. God also gave me the sweet and unexpected gift of the Somervilles. They held my hand, looked me in the eye and promised God’s grace would be sufficient and that He would see me through this. And from beginning to end, God sustained us through the faithful prayers of our family and friends.

Depression does not wait for the right time to invade a person’s life. It does not spare presidents, pastors, or busy mothers from its pain. Depression does not care if it ruins our life. But we are not at the mercy of depression. It operates under the dominion of our sovereign God, who determines its pre-appointed boundaries. I’ve never felt more weak, desperate and vulnerable than when passing through this darkness—yet each day God grew my confidence that if He is for me, nothing can successfully plot against me—nothing. He loves me more than I can fathom. The trial was fierce, but in the end God prevailed. And as Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 2:14, “Thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumph in Christ.”