Journal
Reflections on faith, Scripture, and the deeper life.
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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.
I would lie awake at night rehearsing scenarios in my head, like a director planning every possible outcome of a movie that hadn’t even started filming. My prayers often sounded more like anxious bargaining than trust: “Lord, please let it work out this way. Please don’t let that happen. Please give me a sign.”
Grief doesn’t knock politely—it crashes into your life, flipping everything upside down. One day you’re planning tomorrow. The next, tomorrow looks unrecognizable.
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.”
There was a season in my life when I kept a box of tissues on the nightstand and a bottle of medicine on the counter. Some nights I cried because my body hurt. Other nights I cried because my heart hurt. Sometimes it was both.
I can still picture the room. The blinds were drawn, the chair sat empty beside me, and the silence felt heavier than words. I scrolled through my phone contacts but didn’t call anyone. I told myself, “Don’t bother them. Just get through it.”
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