Faith & Identity

I used to throw the word “love” around like it was nothing. “I love her.” “I’m in love.” Truth? Most of the time, it wasn’t love at all—it was lust dressed up in nice clothes.

Porn is the silent killer of our generation. It’s the hidden addiction that nobody wants to admit, the skeleton in the closet of millions of young men—including me. I never thought I’d get hooked. I told myself I was just curious, that “every guy does it,” and that I could quit whenever I wanted. But what started as curiosity in my early teens grew into chains I dragged well into my twenties.

I never thought I’d say it out loud, but here it is: I’ve doubted God. Not in the casual, fleeting way of wondering if He’s listening, but in the deep, unsettling way of questioning if He’s even there. For a long time, I kept those thoughts locked up. I was ashamed. After all, aren’t Christians supposed to be certain, unwavering, strong in faith?

I remember kneeling by my bed one night, whispering words that felt like they were bouncing off the ceiling. My lips moved, but my heart felt numb.

There was a season when I replayed the same mistake over and over in my mind, like a movie stuck on repeat. No matter how many times I confessed it, no matter how many sermons I heard about grace, I couldn’t shake the guilt.

I used to think “real Christians” never doubted. I thought faith meant unshakable certainty—never asking questions, never wondering if God really heard me, never doubting His Word.

I remember sitting in church one Sunday, staring at the worship lyrics on the screen, but feeling nothing. Everyone around me seemed moved—hands lifted, eyes closed. But inside, I felt hollow.

It was 2:17 a.m. when I stared at the glowing numbers on my alarm clock, wishing I could fall asleep. My mind was racing—replaying conversations, imagining worst-case scenarios, worrying about things that hadn’t even happened yet.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve prayed with tears in my eyes, only to feel like the heavens were silent. One night stands out. I was on the floor beside my bed, clutching a pillow, whispering the same prayer I had prayed for months: “Lord, please… please answer me.”