Have you ever had someone say something so cruel it echoed in your head for days?
Have you ever laughed in public but cried in the shower like it was an Olympic sport?
Have you ever scrolled Instagram, saw someone’s “perfect life,” then looked around your own house and thought, cool, I’m failing with laundry and emotions?
If you answered yes to any of those, congratulations. You are human. Also slightly exhausted. Also not alone.
A few weeks ago, breaking news spread that influencer Mary Magdalene reportedly passed away after falling from a ninth-floor apartment in Thailand on December 9, 2025. She was only 33 years old and widely known for her dramatic cosmetic surgeries and over-the-top online persona. The headlines were shocking. The details were heavy. There is no news as of now if the fall was accidental, intentional or otherwise. But what hurt almost as much as the tragedy itself were the comments.
People were cruel. Strangers debated her life like it was a Netflix series they did not like. Some discussed the pressure of internet fame. Others mocked her appearance. Right before her passing, she had reportedly changed one of her Instagram names to “MaryMagdaleneDied” and posted a farewell referencing The Truman Show, like a symbolic goodbye to a world always watching. If you have never felt the weight of being watched, judged, and reduced to a comment section, consider yourself lucky. Or offline. Probably offline.
It is so easy to look at social media stars and people with fame and assume they are living their best life. The angles are right. The lighting is perfect. The captions say things like “grateful” while the bank account and the soul are both screaming for help. As I study social media more, learning what I am supposed to post and when, I realize something wild. We only show the highlights. We do not post the breakdowns. We do not post the crying sessions on the bathroom floor where mascara becomes abstract art. Well, most of us do not. I might, but that is a different ministry.
We curate joy. We crop out pain. We filter sadness until it looks like confidence. And sometimes we are not lying. We are just surviving.
Mental health is not a trendy buzzword. Depression and anxiety are very real, and they are rising fast. Suicide rates are heartbreaking. Every time I hear about someone ending their life, whether they are famous or anonymous, my heart breaks a little more. It does not make me numb. It makes me determined. Determined to be a blessing to at least one person a day. I cannot save the world. I can barely keep my phone charged. But I can show up for one person.
My husband, who is currently in prison, tells me all the time how many inmates have completely lost hope. Men who feel forgotten, discarded, and convinced their story is already over. Just last month, during visitation, an inmate received news that his wife wanted a divorce. Right there, in front of visitors, his hope collapsed. He locked himself in a room and hurt himself so badly that blood was everywhere. All because hope felt taken away in a single sentence.
That moment wrecked me.
And yet, I am grateful for my husband. Not because prison is easy or romantic or inspirational. It is none of those things. I am grateful because even in that environment, he refuses to focus only on himself. He speaks life into people. He encourages them. He helps them see a future when all they see is concrete walls and regrets. He reminds them not to give up when giving up feels logical. If hope had a job title, it would be unpaid, underappreciated, and absolutely essential.
As we walk through this holiday season, we need to talk honestly. This time of year is beautiful, but it is also brutal. It is one of the highest seasons for loneliness and suicide. There are empty chairs at dinner tables. There are first holidays without someone you love. There are people surrounded by lights who feel completely invisible. There are couples smiling in photos while barely speaking in real life. There are people buying gifts while quietly grieving.
So here is my challenge to myself and to you. Let us walk differently this season.
Maybe it looks like buying a stranger a coffee at Starbucks. Yes, it might feel awkward. That is okay. Growth usually does.
Maybe it is smiling at someone instead of staring at your phone like it owes you money.
Maybe it is calling a family member you have not spoken to in years. The worst that happens is voicemail. The best that happens is healing.
Maybe it is giving a small gift to a neighbor who lives alone. Or inviting them to dinner. Or just saying, hey, I see you.
Everywhere we go, there are hurting people. And here is the hard truth. We are also hurting people. But broken people do not have to keep breaking each other. We can choose to be joy carriers instead of pain distributors. We can decide that our trauma does not get the final word in how we treat others.
You never know the impact you may have on one person’s life. One smile. One kind word. One moment of compassion. That tiny act could be the thread that pulls someone back from the edge. It could be the reminder that they still matter. That they are still loved. That their story is not over, even if the comments section says otherwise.
I am not writing this as someone who has it all together. I am writing this as someone who knows what it feels like to be judged, misunderstood, and reduced to labels. I know what it feels like to laugh loudly and hurt quietly. I also know that Jesus has a habit of loving people right in the middle of their mess, not after they clean it up.
So if you are reading this and you feel unseen, unwanted, or overwhelmed, please hear me clearly. Your life matters. Your pain matters. And you are not weak for feeling it. You are brave for staying.
And if you are reading this and life feels good right now, congratulations. That is a gift. Use it. Be generous with it. Let your joy spill onto someone else who is running on empty.
Remember you are my lovers, whether you love me or love to hate me you are still my lover!
Don’t forget Jesus loves you and so do I!