A letter to my fellow believers—the Church.
I want to share a difficult piece of my story about invisible illness and disability in the Church. Not to condemn but to shine a light on where the Church has unintentionally failed many of our brothers and sisters in Christ.
Before I share my story, I want to first remind us of the call Jesus gives to His Church. We are called to be His hands and feet, to extend His love to everyone—including those with disabilities. This isn’t just a suggestion; it’s at the heart of His ministry.
“Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength. The second is, Love your neighbor as yourself. There is no other command greater than these.”
Let’s Start At The Beginning
For over 15 years, I called a local church my home. In an act of faith and obedience, my mom walked into an office building-turned-congregation one Sunday morning, with a five-year-old in her arms. That small community became our spiritual home—a place where I was baptized, nurtured, and deeply rooted in my faith.
I wasn’t just a member; I was fully immersed. I led prayer, organized events, and served on multiple teams for over a decade. My mentors and leaders poured into me, creating a space where I could grow in leadership and my spiritual gifts. In my most difficult seasons, the pastor and his wife were among the first to step in, offering safety and support.
I loved my church, my mentors, and the people I served alongside. It was there that I had always envisioned celebrating each milestone to come.
As I got older, I became more involved in my local church and community. It all began at a senior class retreat I attended, I shared a small piece of my testimony and it was so beautiful seeing it resonate with my classmates. From then on, I was invited to speak in front of the congregation, given leadership opportunities, and encouraged to host worship nights.
As the months went on, the pressure mounted. What had started as a movement of faith began to feel like an obligation. I was expected to keep producing—more words, more testimonies, more moments of spiritual intensity. My personal healing was put on the back burner as I spent every waking moment preparing to inspire others.
And then, I heard it—a clear word from the Lord.
“Step back.”
This proved to be sound advice, considering at that time, my health was quickly declining.
I was experiencing severe menorrhagia and endometrial pain, often passing out in the school bathroom from blood loss and chronic symptoms. My conductive hearing loss worsened due to medical malpractice and further inner ear trauma, followed by vertigo attacks and fluctuating sensorineural deafness—early signs of Ménière’s Disease.
Endless doctor visits provided few answers. Class discussions became inaccessible, extracurriculars impossible to keep up with, and conversations in the busy church lobby blurred into an overwhelming hum I could no longer follow. My mind was overtired, and with it, my anxiety only intensified.
So, I did what I had always done. I turned to my church for support. And that’s when the spiritual ignorance and neglect began.
“Read Job.” the fifth person I consulted for prayer echoed just as the rest had. “It’s probably a spiritual attack,” or “Your suffering is gain in Christ”.
As my illness and my hearing loss progressed, it made my peers more uncomfortable. The half-hearted prayers for direction didn’t ease my anxiety. The essential oils did nothing for my symptoms. I was even told that demon oppression may be the cause for my anxiety during loud worship.
“Have you been struggling with any secret sin cycles that would have caused this?”
I was 17. I was still a child.
Suddenly the book of Job became an out-of-context guide suggested to me as a remedy to whatever I did, or my loved ones did to inflict this pain on my body.
Was The Suffering I Experienced Self Inflicted?
It was 2019. Brandon (my now-husband) and I had just started dating and were attending a bonfire. It was supposed to be a night celebrating volunteers like me who had dedicated much of their time serving our church body. After over a decade of non-stop serving in children’s ministry, I was ready to enjoy a competitive game of corn hole, worship by the bonfire, and eat a well-earned burger!
Instead, as we settled by the bonfire, I was singled out.
A church leader passed the mic to a fellow church member who had stood up, claiming they had a “word from God” for someone in the crowd. Then, all eyes turned to me. Confused, I shook my head. Surely, they didn’t mean me. But before I could process what was happening, a few volunteers I’d met only a few minutes prior began to urge me forward. They lifted me to my feet, physically guiding me toward the bonfire.
I was mortified.
Had someone I barely knew just implied—in front of 100+ people—that I was harboring some secret sin that caused my illness? That my anxiety and physical suffering were a sign of spiritual disobedience?
I scanned the crowd for my boyfriend. He looked just as stunned as I felt. If we had known what was about to happen, he would have pulled me away. But it was too late.
A microphone was placed in front of me. Hands pressed down on my shoulders as voices prayed over me, demanding that God “reveal the truth.”
And I stood there, heart pounding, mind racing.
Had I done something wrong? Was my suffering my own fault?
Silently, I pleaded with Jesus:
Lord, is this true? Have I been disobedient? Have my actions caused this? Are you trying to show me something?
And in my heart, I felt His answer:
No.
But that wasn’t enough for them. They expected a confession. An explanation. Something.
I mumbled a response—words I don’t even remember—then stepped away, tears streaming down my face. Not because I felt liberated. But because I felt broken. Unwanted. Exposed.
Using My Voice
I wish I could say that was the moment I left. But I didn’t.
I stayed, kept serving, and convinced myself I was being too sensitive. That I had to prove I was still worthy.
So, I poured even more of myself into ministry. I advocated for Deaf and Hard-of-Hearing accessibility, brought in interpreters, and worked to create a more inclusive space. I believed that if I just worked hard enough, they would see my value.
Instead, I was met with resistance.
We were told our interpreters were too distracting. So we were moved to the back of the room, placed under a spotlight where people stared.
It was an uphill battle to find someone willing to sit down and discuss creating an accessible space for dDeaf and Hard of Hearing members. When I finally secured a meeting, the couple on-staff I chatted with were very kind. They asked me to share my story, and my heart for the ministry. After opening up about my health and hearing loss, it felt like creating safe and accessible spaces for other dDeaf and Hard of hearing church members wasn’t a priority—but a burden.
I’m still proud of myself for showing up and bravely asking for them to help me provide interpreters, and opening up and sharing my struggles to keep up without accommodation support. When I expressed my calling to serve on the response team, I was told, “We don’t think it would be the best fit.”
That’s when I realized—they were right.
This wasn’t the best fit.
Moving Forward
I remember feeling so I felt invisible, unworthy, and unwanted. My hairstylist and close friend sat me down mid-appointment and encouraged me to take a step back. I wasn’t being spiritually fed, and it was detrimental.
When my husband and I finally decided to leave, we didn’t make a grand announcement. No confrontation. No explanation. We simply stopped showing up. One week passed. Then another. And no one reached out. No one texted. No one called. No one asked if we were okay, if they could help, if we still had access to sermons. After 17 years of service, I walked away. And the silence was deafening.
Finding Grace
It’s been almost three years. Today, I attend a church that sees me. A church that doesn’t pray my disability away but instead asks how they can support me. A church that invites my community to the table—not as a problem to be solved, but as a person to be loved. A church that listens, learns, and makes space. They saved me. It saved my faith.
To those who welcomed us in, and listened to my story—you have no idea how significant that was to our healing journey. To the people on Sunday mornings who go out of their way to say hi, or send out a text to check on us—thank you. Kirsten and Brian, you have made me feel so safe. You have loved my community so well, and allowed space for us to create, worship, and minister together. During the passing of my dear friend, and at my worst health you were there grieving and praying alongside us. You showed us the love of Jesus in the most tangible ways possible. And to Joy—sweet Joy, You brought me back to a place where worship feels safe again. I feel whole, and free to use my voice and signs to praise Jesus. You taught me to find my voice. And for that, I will never be able to thank you enough.
To My Old Church
If you are reading this and know me from my old church, please understand—I still hold so much love for you. Many of the people involved in my hurt don’t even attend anymore. I believe they had good intentions. I have forgiven them. I hold no resentment toward the amazing leaders who once mentored me.
I want to be clear that I do not believe my old church as a whole is inherently bad. The congregation does an amazing job of making many individuals with physical and visible disabilities feel at home. That is crucial to supporting caregivers in our community. The church’s heart for rallying around those involved in the foster care system and providing support for both biological and foster parents is so impactful. I do not want to discredit the work the Lord is doing through this body of believers, nor take away from the positive experiences that take place through those doors.
I have also been told there have been steps taken to improve since I’ve been away, and if so, I am glad the Lord is healing and repairing this piece of our story. I only wish I could have been there to see it. If you ever need support in continuing to foster accessibility for the dDeaf and Hard of Hearing community, I would love to sit down and provide my accessibility consultation services.
To my former Pastor and his wife—I love you dearly. You are still doing beautiful things in the community. I’m sorry if you viewed our leaving as hurtful or backsliding. I’m safe, I’ve found somewhere that invests in my spiritual gifts. I’ve only fallen more in love with Jesus, and his people. I hope you understand my heart and where this is coming from. I felt called to share my story so others could learn from the hurt that I experienced as someone who is chronically ill and disabled in the Church. You are intentional about reaching out to young families with children who have visible disabilities who feel at home. As someone who had been a lifetime member, my accommodations as someone with hearing loss often felt overlooked and a burden to the church. Just know I care so much. I am praying for you, and the ministry you have worked so hard to see grow and flourish. I am always open to chatting about my experience if it is something you feel would benefit your ministry, and provide healing and closure for all parties involved. No matter what, Brandon and I truly always look forward to seeing you out and about, and catching up!
But despite these things, I was hurt there. I was pushed out. And the lack of response only confirmed what I had feared—my suffering was invisible to the people I had once called family.
Most importantly, this story is bigger than me.
This is why chronically ill, deaf, and disabled individuals so often feel unseen in the Church.
Not because we lack faith. Not because we don’t want to serve. But because the spaces we give so much to refuse to make room for us. People feel uncomfortable or burdened by us.
I’m sharing this story not to tear down, but to build up awareness.
Until the Church fully embraces chronically ill and disabled individuals—not as burdens, not as people to be “fixed,” but as valuable members of the Body of Christ—we will continue to see them leave.
And that is not the Church Jesus calls us to be.
