My name is Sarah Lynchard, and I just turned 39. I’ve been married for 15 years to my husband, whom I dated for two and a half years before we got married. Together, we have three children, ages 11, 8, and 5. I'm originally from the Mississippi Delta, specifically around Charleston and Greenwood. I was born in Jackson, Mississippi, and grew up there.

My parents were together when I was born, and I have two younger siblings, each a year apart. My mom was a stay-at-home mom until I was about seven, and my dad was a cross-country truck driver who was gone a lot. When I was seven, my parents divorced. Leading up to the divorce, my dad was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and he struggled with his faith. I think he carried a lot of unresolved traumas from his childhood.

When my dad was manic, he became like a street evangelist, passionate about sharing his faith. He would travel to New Orleans, hold up signs, and preach to people about Jesus. The good parts of my childhood memories are tied to those times, even though there were restrictions – no secular TV, only TBN, no Disney movies because of the villains, except for The Jungle Book and The Lion King. We didn’t go trick-or-treating or do anything that was considered “from the devil.” But when he was in a depressive state, things were different. He struggled with drug addiction and alcoholism, and there was a lot of domestic violence that I remember witnessing.

Religion and Christianity have been a part of my life, but they have not been very consistent, and they have not been very positive a lot of the way. My mom’s side of the family was deeply faithful, especially my grandmother, who had a strong testimony that left an impact on me. Her favorite hymn, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, was always a source of comfort. Even though my dad’s faith fluctuated, there were good times when he was a caring father and on fire for God. My mom did her best to raise us faithfully during the times he was absent, and we'd sit together for family devotionals in the evenings.

My mom eventually left my dad, and we moved in with my grandparents in Greenwood, Mississippi. They were pastors at the Salvation Army, which is both a church and a service organization. That's how I was raised, in a non-denominational church environment, though we still saw my dad on the weekends. You never knew which dad you were going to get or which woman he might be with at the time.

When I was twelve, my mom remarried a man she met at church. I stopped seeing my dad as much after that, although he still tried to encourage me in faith whenever we spoke. When I was nineteen, my dad, who was high at the time, ran a red light and hit a car, tragically killing a 21-year-old woman. He went to prison for eight years, and that’s when I began to reconnect with him.

My stepdad, who raised me, was a Christian man but had also been through a lot, including prison and addiction before he turned his life around. After 15 years of sobriety, he relapsed when I was around 17 or 18. He struggled with alcohol again, stopped paying bills, and my mom was left to manage everything.

When I was 21, he came on to me while my mom was away, which created a lot of conflict. He convinced her that he’d simply “used the wrong words,” and I was effectively pushed out of the family until I apologized. That period was extremely hard for me, but thankfully, I had a full scholarship and stayed in the college dorms.

 When I went off to college, it was the first time I was really alone. My best friend was there, but I still felt isolated and looked for love in all the wrong places. I got into relationships I knew weren’t right, and even though the Holy Spirit nudged me, I kept on because I craved that physical connection. After that, I dated a guy who was abusive—it felt like one relationship disaster after another, always seeking love but not letting myself be alone.

Eventually, I met my husband, who turned out to be nothing like I expected. Our first date was at his house, where he cooked for me—something no man had done before! I was still looking for someone to save me, someone who would give me stability and a sense of love. He seemed to be that person. However, as we grew closer and dated for two and a half years, I started to unravel emotionally. At the time, I was also in a marriage and family therapy program, learning about child development and personal healing. This was all new for me, and even though I tried therapy, it felt overwhelming. I wasn’t ready for all the emotions that bubbled up, and it strained my relationship with him.

He eventually broke up with me, saying he couldn’t handle my baggage. As hard as it was, I realized he was right, and I was left with myself and my faith. I decided then to focus on my relationship with Jesus, reading the Bible, repenting, and trying to understand what God wanted for me. I threw myself into special education, feeling that it was where God wanted me to be. Six months into this journey, I was healing, really focusing on God. Out of the blue, I texted my ex-boyfriend. We met up, got engaged two weeks later, and were married six weeks after that. That six-month period was transformative—I found peace and healing, and I knew, without a doubt, that God had been with me every step of the way. I remember praying “God how could I not know that you were with me this entire time. I made all these wrong choices, you kept holding on to me, and so now it’s my turn to hold on to you.”

My husband and I, we've worked on our own faith journey together, and that’s been so beautiful for us. Then, we had our own kids, and, well, that brought a whole new level of growth. It’s funny; you don’t realize how much you have to work on until you have children. They bring out things you never even knew were there.

Having children made me confront parts of myself I wasn’t proud of, like my anxiety and anger, much of which stemmed from my relationship with my dad. It's one thing to deal with these things yourself, but it’s different when your actions can affect your kids. I didn’t want those cycles to continue. I struggled with postpartum depression after my first child and postpartum anxiety with my second. It’s been a long journey dealing with mental health, but God has been so faithful throughout, always reminding me, “I’m here.”

My husband has been a rock. He’s incredibly stable and comes from a wonderful, emotionally healthy family. That was what first attracted me to him. His dad has been like the father I didn’t have. I've told him that, and he humbly responded, “I’ve made mistakes, too.” But honestly, he’s been a huge example for me, showing me what a functional family can look like. They took me in and raised me in a sense; they’ve always said they didn’t have three kids—they had four. It’s been a learning experience, seeing what a stable family life can be.

As for my own dad, he's alive but has had a hard journey. He had a manic episode a couple of years ago, sold everything, and ended up living on the streets in Colorado. He’s struggled with addiction and mental health issues, which was especially difficult to watch. His wife stood by him through a lot, even visiting him when he was in prison and supporting him in ways many wouldn’t. He’s always been manipulative, and while she didn’t know the extent of it when they first married, I tried to warn her. It’s painful because he’s been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but he refuses to acknowledge or seek help for it.

Then there’s my relationship with my mom. It’s always been complicated, a bit awkward. She’s tried over the years, and we’ve had moments of connection, like when she came to my graduations. But there’s a distance between us that feels hard to bridge. My step-dad passed away about six years ago from cirrhosis. Toward the end of his life, he rededicated himself to God, and he and my mom would do Bible devotions together. Unfortunately, by then, his body was already failing.

When my stepdad passed away, I was there for her, and since she’s moved closer, I help out however I can. She’s even planning to come for Halloween and spend time with the kids, which is great. But there’s always this tension—like the other day, she went to hug me, and I tensed up. She asked, “Why don’t you like hugs?” and, half-joking, I told her, “Maybe it’s because I wasn’t hugged much as a kid.” That joke hit a little too close to home.

It's a deep pain, feeling like your mother didn’t choose you, or that her love wasn’t unconditional. But I try to take those feelings and channel them into how I raise my own kids. I want things to be different for them. I told my husband, “I hope they never have to experience any trauma.” I pray over them, asking God to protect them, to let them grow up without hardship. But when I look back, I see how the things I went through shaped me. Those challenges taught me resilience and gave me skills that helped me survive.

You know, if you don't go through certain experiences, you might never reach that place in life where you realize how much you need Him. I wouldn’t want my children to go through the same kind of trauma, though. Nobody wants to see their kids suffer like that. My hope is that, if they have to face challenges, it could be something less severe, like a normal heartbreak. Not the kind of things that lead to a lifetime of struggle, like addiction or other hardships.

We all have our own battles with sin; it’s just part of living in a broken world. God has been so faithful to me, though. When I had my second daughter, I went through postpartum anxiety. I’d already been through some traumatic experiences with my first child, and I hadn’t even realized it at the time, but I’d experienced postpartum depression with him, too.

My son was born prematurely at 28 weeks. He was only one pound and 12 ounces, and I had severe onset preeclampsia. It was a terrifying ordeal, and the time he spent in the NICU was difficult in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. I felt absolutely no attachment to him at all. I was 27 at the time. I had my second daughter when I was 30 and my youngest at 33.

When he was born, I discovered something about myself: my trauma response is to freeze. Some people fight, some flee, but I just freeze. After he was born, I was so overwhelmed that I didn’t even go to see him in the NICU for two or three days. They let me stay in the hospital a little longer because he was in the NICU, but I just couldn’t go. It wasn’t until the doctor called me to talk about my son’s condition and asked why I hadn’t been to see him that I finally forced myself to go. I felt like I was just going through the motions.

The nurses had to teach me everything—how to swaddle, feed, and care for him. But emotionally, I felt nothing. He was just like my little patient. I was heartbroken and frustrated. One time, when he was about three months old, I was trying to feed him, but he was struggling with the suck-breathe reflex and just couldn’t get it right. I got so frustrated that I just put him back in his bed and told the nurse, "He’s not doing what he’s supposed to be doing." There was anger there, and nobody recognized it as a sign of postpartum depression, not even my OB-GYN.

When he was six months old, after we’d finally brought him home, I was doing all the things I thought a mom was supposed to do. But even though I was doing everything “right,” I still felt that emotional disconnect. One night, I was rocking him, and I just kept praying, “God, please, let me love him. Please, let me love him.” I told myself I would fake it till I made it, and I kept pushing forward. Eventually, that bond did grow.

With my second baby, the struggle was with extreme anxiety. I was trying to nurse and dealing with the aftermath of a C-section, and the anxiety was paralyzing. The doctor had prescribed Percocet for pain, and even though I didn’t really need it, I started taking one to ease the anxiety. Then one day, I took two, and it felt really good. I realized how easy it would be to slip into addiction, so I threw the pills away.

One day, when she was about six months old, I was on the floor trying to sort clothes, and I just froze. My mind was clouded, and I couldn’t figure out how to do the simplest task. I called my husband, crying, and he had to walk me through sorting clothes over the phone. That’s when I knew something was very wrong. I went to the doctor and was diagnosed with postpartum anxiety and prescribed Zoloft, which was a game changer. During that time, I also developed social anxiety. I wanted to go to church and be around people, but I could barely talk without tearing up. It was such a difficult time.

My third baby, though—she was my easy one. God finally gave me rest. I wanted to name her Joy. Even though I didn't, she has brought us so much joy—she's the final puzzle piece to it all.

When she was born, I was getting up in the middle of the night and struggling with anxiety. I decided to start reading the Bible, even though I had never been a morning person. It’s often recommended to start your day with God, so I thought, why not? I was nursing every three hours anyway, so I figured I could use that time for something meaningful. I committed to making it a habit, believing that if I did it for 30 or 60 days, it would stick. I read through the entire Bible in a year, and I just kept going. In fact, I've read through the Bible four times now, and lately, I focus on studying entire books instead.

This practice has helped me immensely in dealing with my anxiety and feelings of being lost and helpless. I leaned heavily on my husband during this time; he became my rock and had to help me with everything from planning my day to writing my grocery list. It was tough, but establishing a routine and diving into God’s word changed my life and outlook. The joy and peace I found through Jesus have been transformative.

Now, my daughter is almost nine, and I’ve been maintaining this routine for over seven years. I wake up around 4:30 in the morning to have some quiet time before the chaos of the day begins. I sit on my back porch, sipping my coffee, watching the sunrise, and reading for about an hour, followed by 30 minutes of prayer.

As a child, I had Jesus in my life, but I didn’t really understand what that relationship meant. I had thoughts about faith, but there was no concrete understanding. Now that I have my own children, I try to guide them, but I want them to seek Jesus on their own terms. My son has been saved and baptized, and I strive to be the guide I never had, helping them understand what it looks like to be discipled in their faith.

I think it's crucial to help my children navigate this journey without stumbling. I often reflect on how close I was to going down the wrong path; I could have become a drug addict, but I felt the pull of the Holy Spirit throughout my life. Even when I made poor choices, I could sense that they were wrong, that I was hurting myself and others, including God. I believe everyone has those moments where they're searching for love and acceptance, and deep down, it’s a desire that God gives us to ultimately lead us to Him.

I've come to appreciate my trials. A couple of years ago, during a Sunday school class, our teacher asked us to write a letter to God. As I thought about what to say, I realized I wanted to express gratitude for all the hard times. I would have never discovered how great God is without them. Even in hindsight, I can see His goodness in everything.

It's so much easier to recognize His goodness after the fact. When you're in the midst of struggle, it can feel like you're lost and wondering where He is. But I've learned that healing is a journey, and I still have so much more to do. I aspire to be like my grandmother, a strong woman of faith who shared her testimony freely. She was a living testament to Jesus, and I want my kids to look back and say, "Jesus was in Mama." That's probably the best compliment I could receive.