Column: i tried the world, it failed me

Recently, after something bad happened and two of my closest friends left for abroad—all within the span of a week—I found myself utterly alone in a way I hadn’t felt before. It hit differently—sharp, silent, and heavy.

But the emptiness wasn’t new. My battle with depression has stretched across years. There were days when even getting out of bed felt impossible, when the weight on my chest was so suffocating I thought I wouldn’t make it through the day. I go to therapy when it gets too much. Talking helps. It’s not a magic fix, but it’s a lifeline—one that holds me steady when everything else slips.

Still, during the worst of it, for days, I stopped eating. I couldn’t sleep. I barely moved. The anxiety and exhaustion tangled around me like thick fog, and I couldn’t reach out to anyone. My parents once described me as the independent one. Among their four children, I’ve always been the opinionated one, the strong-willed one.

But that night, I broke. At 12 a.m., I found myself sobbing on the phone with my dad, telling him I wanted to give up. It was the kind of surrender that didn’t even have words—only pain.

Then, the next evening, something small but profound happened. I was scrolling mindlessly on TikTok when a scene from The Chosen appeared—the moment Jesus met the woman at the well in Samaria.

She was an outcast. A woman who had five marriages and was now living with a man who wasn’t her husband. Shunned by her community, judged, and probably forgotten. But Jesus didn’t ignore her. He didn’t condemn her. He saw her. And He offered her something no man ever could—living water, the kind that quenches a soul’s thirst. He spoke to her with compassion, not shame. And for the first time, she was seen not for her sins, but for her soul.

Watching that scene broke something in me—in the best way. Because I saw myself in her. The messy, searching girl who’d made too many mistakes, chased too many dead ends, and forgotten her worth.

It reminded me that no matter how far I’ve fallen, grace is still waiting. I wasn’t too far gone—I was just dry. And it was time to drink. I used to think I was looking for love, but the truth is, I was running from it. From myself. From Him.

So after that, I started watching full episodes. I binged all four seasons in two days.

And I realized… God is going to get you. If you belong to God, you can run, you can hide—but He’s going to find you. For years, I tried every back alley, every room. I looked for reality at the bottom of a bottle and in casual, meaningless connections. But there’s no lasting reality out there—no power, no life, no joy. Only empty shadows.

There are seasons in life when God allows you to be set apart—not to punish you, but to prepare you. At first, the isolation feels painful, even confusing. You look around and realize that people you once leaned on are no longer there. The noise fades. The familiar disappears. And you’re left wondering, Why am I alone?

But in that sacred silence, something begins to happen.

He isolates you not to break you—but to bring you closer to Him. When all distractions are removed, when the people who once filled your time and space are no longer within reach, you’re finally able to hear His voice clearly. Sometimes, it takes being alone to realize how much we’ve depended on everything but Him.

He doesn’t isolate you to break you. He isolates you to build you. It’s His way of preparing you for something greater—something you wouldn’t be ready for if you stayed where you were or clung to who you were with.

And yes, some people will walk away during this time. Some relationships will fall away quietly. But don’t take that as rejection. Take it as redirection. They were part of your journey—but not part of your assignment. Their chapter in your story has ended, and that’s okay. Not everyone is meant to go where God is taking you.

So if you’re in a season of isolation, take heart. This isn’t the end—it’s a beginning. A refining. A divine setup for something new. Trust the process. God isn’t punishing you—He’s positioning you. And when the time is right, He will reintroduce you to the world—not as who you were, but as who He created you to be.

I started praying again—quiet, trembling prayers in the morning and in the stillness of night. I started reading the Bible again, and I’m slowly working through half of the New Testament right now. During the pandemic, I used to listen to Steven Furtick’s sermons just to kill time. Now, I listen to truly hear.

My days are still mostly spent alone. But the loneliness doesn’t sting the way it used to. It feels like preparation. I work during the day, then I read, reflect, and sing a song or two to the Lord. I pray before bed. I pray when I wake up. I listen to worship songs that remind me I’m not alone—even when the room is quiet.

Rock bottom humbled me. It stripped me of every illusion I held about control, success, even love. It showed me the nakedness of my soul—the kind only something divine can cover. It showed me that everything I thought I needed was nothing compared to what I was made for.

Now, I thirst for a bigger purpose—not to escape, but to truly see. I’ll be leaving soon—not to run away, but to serve. To do volunteer work at the grassroots level. To see life through the eyes of the marginalized. To sit with their tribal elders. To share meals. To learn their stories, their customs, their language. I want to teach their children how to read, write, and dream.

I want to help bridge the gap between their communities and the government services they deserve.

But more than that, I want to introduce them to the Jesus who met a broken woman at a well—and offered her something eternal. I want to tell them about the living water that changed everything for her… and for me.

I lived too many years for myself—chasing shadows, forgetting the light. But it’s never too late to rise from the ruins. And when God calls you out of the grave, you don’t walk… you run.