Dear church, let’s talk about lonEliness
A BRAVE CONVERSATION ON ISOLATION
There are seasons in life that arrive quietly, even beautifully, yet still carry with them a deep sense of lack—of connection, of meaning, sometimes even of purpose. And if you’ve ever felt that way, even when everything on the outside looks put together, you’re not alone. I’ve found myself in those moments more often than I’d like to admit, wondering how I could be surrounded by people, even blessings, and still feel deeply unseen. As women of faith, we often wear strength like a badge, but beneath it, many of us carry the quiet ache of loneliness. This is a conversation I’ve needed to have, and I believe the Church needs to hear.
I was practically born into community. My pastors visited my mom in the hospital after she gave birth to me, and I remember how church friends flooded our home with meals and groceries after each of my siblings arrived. As one of five children, and with the Church as a second home, I never had to look far to find belonging. It was built in—woven into the fabric of my life.
And yet, I’ve come to know this truth all too well: you can be in a room full of people and still feel completely alone.
You can be in a room full of people and still feel alone.
This current season of my life looks so different from anything I ever imagined. After years of serving in ministry and stepping into my dream role as a Kids Pastor, I suddenly found myself without a title and without a church. Our church had to close its doors during COVID. At the same time, I was walking into another dream—dating and eventually marrying the man I had waited years for. God was opening a new door even as another closed.
Now, I’m a wife and mom to two sweet little boys. I love so much about this chapter, but I’d be lying if I said it hasn't also been marked by loneliness. A different kind of loneliness—one I wasn’t prepared for. One that seemed to be birthed alongside motherhood.
And I wish I could say that when hardship hits, I always respond with faith and resilience. But more often than not, I retreat. I’ve become skilled at sitting with sorrow, letting it pull me beneath the surface. Stepping out of full-time ministry, out of the front row of church leadership, left me disoriented. I had poured myself into the Church for years. Not out of pride, but out of calling. Out of love. So when I found myself entering a new church as a 30-year-old new mom, unknown and unsure, I couldn’t help but wonder: Church, what are you going to do about this?
“All the believers devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching, and to fellowship, and to sharing in meals, and to prayer.”
As I searched for a new church home, I found myself wrestling with more than just unfamiliar spaces. News of failures among former church leaders, including some connected to my own family, shook me. These revelations felt like spiritual earthquakes, breaking open assumptions I didn’t even realize I’d built my life on. And somewhere in these extreme faith interruptions, I found myself asking: How much of my idea of Church has been shaped by tradition... and how much by Scripture?
The simplicity and beauty of Acts 2:42 gripped me. Teaching. Fellowship. Shared meals. Prayer. That’s it. That’s the foundation. And who is invited into that kind of community? All the believers. Not just the pastors or ministry leaders. Not just the lifelong members or the well-connected. All. That includes me. That includes you.
But if I’m honest, I didn’t want to believe that at first. I wanted to stay safely on the sidelines—attend when I felt like it, avoid the vulnerability of being new. I justified my detachment. After all, hadn’t I already given so much? Wasn’t it the Church’s turn to come find me?
What I didn’t realize is that the very thing I was aching for, true connection, was sitting just on the other side of a hard “yes.” A yes to showing up. A yes to serving again. A yes to being seen, even in my uncertainty. And slowly, the Lord began to work in me, not by changing my surroundings, but by changing my heart.
“I wanted to stay safely on the sidelines—attend when I felt like it, avoid the vulnerability of being new. I justified my detachment. After all, hadn’t I already given so much? Wasn’t it the Church’s turn to come find me?”
The truth is, loneliness is often the consequence of comfort. And community usually requires a cost. I had chosen the comfort of the back row, but it came with a price: disconnection. Now, I’m choosing the harder path—the vulnerable, sometimes awkward, always brave path of participation. And in that obedience, I’m beginning to see the fruit: real, life-giving connection.
So maybe you came here hoping for a critique of the Church—another voice pointing out what’s missing. And yes, there’s space for those conversations. But today, I’m sharing what God has pointed out in me. He reminded me that while the Church isn’t perfect, it is powerful when we all bring what we have to the table. That belonging we long for? It’s built, not stumbled into.
If there’s one thing the Church is still incredibly good at, it’s community. But real community often waits on the other side of that uncomfortable first step, signing up to serve, joining the small group, staying after service just a little longer, saying yes when it feels easier to slip out unnoticed.
He reminded me that while the Church isn’t perfect, it is powerful when we all bring what we have to the table. That belonging we long for? It’s built, not stumbled into.
I’ve learned that almost every decision we make comes with either a hard choice or a hard consequence. I chose comfort, and I felt the weight of isolation. But now, I’m choosing the hard yes, and I’m beginning to reap the peace, joy, and connection I prayed for.
So, to the woman in the back row, the new mom, the former leader, the faithful servant in a quiet season—I see you. More importantly, God sees you. And He still calls you into fellowship. Not after you’ve figured it all out. Not when life feels easy. Now.
“God sets the lonely in families…” — Psalm 68:6
May you find courage to step in again. May you be met with warmth, seen with kindness, and woven back into the fabric of the Church, not just as a participant, but as a vital part of the Body.
A prayer for you:
Lord, help us say yes again. Help us risk being known, even in our brokenness. Teach us to build community even as we heal within it. And remind us that we are never truly alone when we walk with You.
