under construction: my last christian retreat

This morning, a sweet woman reached out and sent me a few photos from 2019—images from the last time I spoke at an evangelical women’s retreat. It was her church retreat, and I remember the theme well: Under Construction. I shared about the ongoing work God was doing in me, how we’re all unfinished and in process.

She was kind and didn’t express any disappointment, but knowing how I would’ve felt back then, I can’t help but wonder if part of her reason for sending them was to remind me of where I came from—especially now that I’ve been so open about my deconstruction journey over the past couple of years.

And I get it. I really do. I wonder if, in her eyes, those pictures captured a version of me she wishes I’d never walked away from. If I’m honest, sometimes I wish I could go back, too. It’s a lot easier to just believe than to face the disappointment, frustration and sadness I see in the eyes of those who I used to teach, love, and encourage. But it wouldn’t be honorable to live something I could tell in my heart wasn’t true for me anymore.

That retreat was a huge turning point in my journey.

By the time I stepped up to that podium in 2019, something inside of me had already shifted. Preparing for that talk was one of the hardest moments I’d had in ministry to that point. I had already left the institutional church, though my faith hadn’t fully unraveled yet. I was still holding on, still trying to make it work. I was fighting the change that had been quietly unfolding since 2016.

And standing on that stage… it showed me just how much had changed.

I looked out at those beautiful, faith-filled women and felt this deep tension between what I was expected to say and what I was actually wrestling with inside. I could still say the words—with passion and conviction even—but I wasn’t sure I believed them anymore. And that didn’t sit well with me.

It didn’t feel honest.

Not because I didn’t care, and certainly not because I didn’t love those women—but because I knew I was offering a version of faith that no longer fit me. It felt like trying to wear something I’d long since outgrown, still tugging at the seams to make it look presentable.

That retreat ended up being my last. I said no to every invitation after that—not because I was angry or rebellious—but because I knew I had to honor the path that was unfolding in front of me. I couldn’t keep performing. I had to start exploring.

Deconstruction wasn’t some big, dramatic fallout. It was a quiet, sacred undoing. A surrender. A decision to stop clinging to certainty and instead walk with integrity into the unknown.

So when I look at those photos now, I don’t feel shame. I feel deep compassion for the woman in them—doing her best to hold it all together, even as it was all slowly coming undone. She was so scared. Fought so hard to cling to it all. I feel gratitude for the moment I finally gave myself permission to stop pretending and start seeking truth—wherever it would lead.

If you’re in that space right now—in the tension, in the unraveling, in that quiet ache—I just want you to know: I see you. You’re not alone.

Honor your journey.

It’s worth it.