If you’ve ever politely declined a second date because he didn’t pray before eating, but still stared at him in disbelief when he misquoted Romans, this one’s yours. If you’ve ever dressed for brunch like you were heading to the boardroom and the throne room, just to sit at a table of women who made you feel like an endangered species, you’re not alone. And if you’ve ever felt like you had to dim down your discernment for the world, or zip up your realness for the church, then I know exactly the tightrope you're walking.

I remember sitting on the edge of my bed one grey Sunday morning, the sort of morning that feels heavy before you’ve even opened the curtains. My Bible lay on the duvet beside me, unopened, and I stared at it with something close to resentment. I used to wake up hungry for God’s word, eager to pray, but lately, it felt like I was trying to warm myself with the memory of a fire that had long since gone out.

When I gave my life back to God, I wasn’t naïve. I didn’t expect the world to stand up and clap. I knew that choosing to follow Christ, really follow Him, meant letting go of certain things. I knew it would come with questions, sideways glances, maybe even mockery.

What I didn’t expect was how quietly lonely obedience could feel.

There’s a certain elegance in living quietly counter to the culture: a kind of quiet rebellion, if you like. I’m in my twenties, a stage of life often marked by experimentation, excess, and the ever-looming fear of falling behind. But rather than feeling swept along by all of that, I’ve found an anchoring, not in ambition or aesthetics, but in faith. Christianity, for me, isn’t a cultural label or a set of prohibitions. It’s the very structure that gives shape to my womanhood, my decisions, and the way I carry myself in a world increasingly allergic to conviction.

There’s a subtle, almost invisible danger in becoming too good at coping. For many of us, especially those of us who were handed responsibilities long before we knew how to articulate our own needs, learning to manage our emotions alone didn’t feel like a decision. It was survival. It became the quiet rhythm of our girlhoods. We grew up praised for being emotionally articulate, well put-together, “wise beyond our years.” And so, we learned to wear composure like armour, neatness like virtue.

I never really thought I’d find myself back in church: alone, emotional, and clutching a tissue like it was the last shred of composure I had. But there I was, sitting in the back pew, trying not to cry too loudly during the second hymn. I realised then, I’d drifted too far from something I hadn’t realised I needed. And that something was God.