In October 2024, my life came to a screeching halt. After 20 years in youth ministry, I was asked to take a break. This wasn’t a sabbatical or a time of refreshment—it was a forced pause, a moment where leadership had to step in and say: It’s time for you to step away from ministry.
I want to be clear: this wasn’t the result of some hidden sin or moral failure. It wasn’t about misconduct or breaking trust. It was because I was a broken man trying to carry everything on my own. And I’ll be honest with you—I did it well for a lot of years, but your struggles have a funny way of catching up to you.
When the news hit, I cycled through a storm of emotions. First, I was salty—frustrated and defensive. Then, I went numb, unsure of what to do with myself. And beneath it all, I was afraid. Afraid of looking like a failure. After all, this is all I’ve ever known. Ministry has been my life’s work. If I wasn’t leading, then who was I? Just a broken guy who realized that life is way too hard.
We all know the truth: life is hard. Ministry is hard. The Bible never promises an easy road—quite the opposite. Consider these verses:
“We are hard-pressed on every side…”
2 Corinthians 4:8-9
“You will face trials of many kinds…”
James 1:2-4
These verses aren’t just poetic encouragements; they are raw reminders of reality. Life brings trials. Leadership carries weight. And if we’re honest, many of us are carrying far more than we should on our own.
Not only do we bear our own struggles—our past wounds, anxieties, traumas, and insecurities—but in ministry, we also carry the burdens of those we serve. Over the years, I’ve walked with students through everything under the sun: suicides, deaths, illnesses, broken homes, abuse, addiction, mental health crises, faith deconstruction—you name it, I’ve seen it. And while I was there for them, I never stopped to acknowledge my own wounds.
I grew up in a deeply dysfunctional home before being adopted. Before the age of five, I was bounced through 30 foster homes. Abuse and neglect were constants in my early life, and in response, I became a relentless people-pleaser—desperate to be accepted, valued, and needed. I learned to hustle for my worth, and that same pattern followed me into ministry. I poured myself out for others but never allowed myself to be cared for because I was afraid to reveal my cards. What would people think of me?
The weight of leadership, the expectation to always be available, the constant outpouring—it all takes a toll. For years, I prided myself on my ability to push through. Late nights, early mornings, hard conversations, big events, deep heartbreak—it was just part of the job. And I was okay with that—until I wasn’t.
Eventually, my wife saw what I refused to. When I was too prideful to ask for help, she did it for me. And when I was told to take a break, I didn’t know how to react.
For weeks, I sat in that feeling of failure, convinced I was alone. It reminded me of the psalmist’s words in Psalm 102:
“For my days pass away like smoke, and my bones burn like a furnace. My heart is struck down like grass and has withered; I forget to eat my bread. Because of my loud groaning my bones cling to my flesh. I am like a desert owl of the wilderness, like an owl of the waste places; I lie awake; I am like a lonely sparrow on the housetop…”
Psalm 102:3-7
But something unexpected happened in the silence. As the noise of ministry faded, I began to hear God’s voice in a way I hadn’t in years.
I saw how exhausted I truly was. I realized my identity had become wrapped up in my role. I recognized how I had neglected my own soul.
For so long, I had been focused on shepherding others, yet I had ignored the broken places in my own heart that desperately needed tending.
This unwanted breakthrough became a gift. It reminded me that ministry is not about me. God’s work doesn’t depend solely on my effort. My worth is not in how much I do, but in whose I am. So I humbled myself, surrendered, and took the opportunity to grow.
- I asked for help and invited mentors to walk with me in my pain.
- I submitted myself to leadership with full awareness that not dealing with my issues could cost me my job.
- I sat through weekly intensive counselling sessions and poured out my pain.
- I wept uncontrollably and became okay with wearing my heart on my sleeve.
- I apologized to my family, my youth staff, and my students for my pride.
All I could do was cast my burden on the Lord, and that’s when the fog started to lift and healing began. It wasn’t instant, and it wasn’t easy, but day by day, I felt His presence guiding me through the pain. The weight that once felt unbearable slowly became lighter, replaced by a deep sense of peace that only He could provide.
The truth is, I will continue to deal with my past, my pain, and my wounds. Even as a new creation in Christ, those things remain a part of my story. I think this is why both Paul and Peter said:
“…cast all your anxieties on Him
because He cares for you.”
1 Peter 5:7
“…press on toward the goal for the prize
of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.”
Philippians 3:14
Both apostles understood that following Jesus doesn’t erase our past, but it does redefine it. Paul, who once persecuted Christians, didn’t ignore his history—he acknowledged it as a testament to God’s grace. Peter, who denied Jesus three times, didn’t let his failure define him—he allowed Christ’s restoration to shape his future.
In the same way, I am learning that my past is not something to be ashamed of or something to run from. Instead, it is a part of my testimony, a reminder of where I’ve been and how far God has brought me. My wounds don’t disqualify me; they position me to experience and extend God’s healing to others.
This is the beauty of redemption. Jesus doesn’t just save us from our sin—He transforms our pain into purpose. My past struggles, failures, and hurts are not obstacles to my faith; they are the very places where God’s grace shines the brightest.
So, I will continue to walk forward, acknowledging my wounds but refusing to be defined by them. I will keep surrendering them to Christ, trusting that He is making all things new—including me.
If you’re reading this and feeling the weight of ministry, I want to encourage you: slow down. Take inventory of your soul. Don’t wait until you’re forced to stop—pause now. Let yourself rest. You are not God. You are not the Savior. You are simply a vessel He has chosen to use, and He cares more about your heart than your hustle.
To my fellow youth workers, pastors, and leaders—don’t wait until burnout takes you out. Your soul matters. And so does your story.
P.S. I’m back at work because I did the hard work… You can too!
This post first appeared on Download Youth Ministry.