Embracing my Faith

Throughout my first ten months in Sierra Leone, my faith became more than just something I was learning about, it became something I was living. I had stepped onto the ship as someone still unsure, still holding onto pieces of my old identity, still battling the lies that had shaped me for so long. But as the months passed, something inside me began to shift. For the first time in my life, I could feel the weight of my past beginning to lift.

It had been there for as long as I could remember, an invisible burden pressing down on my chest, woven into my thoughts, influencing my choices, convincing me that I was unworthy of love, of grace, of belonging. I had carried it for so long that I had stopped noticing its weight, until I felt it start to lighten. I wasn’t just hearing the truth of God’s love anymore, I was beginning to know it. Not just in my mind, but in my soul. 

That I was loved. That I had always been loved. That even in my worst moments, my most broken decisions, my most painful regrets, His love had never wavered. And as that truth settled into the deepest parts of me, I found myself stepping into a new kind of honesty. For the first time, I began to open up about my past, not just to God, but to my friends. We would sit together, in the quiet hum of the ship and I would speak words I rarely spoke aloud. I would tell them about the choices I had made, the things I had done, the pain I had carried. I would let them see the parts of me I had spent so long trying to hide. And the most incredible thing? They listened. They didn’t flinch. They didn’t turn away. They didn’t look at me differently. Instead, they met my brokenness with grace, reminding me, over and over, that I was forgiven. But even more importantly, I was finally being honest with myself. That kind of honesty was terrifying.

It was painful. It felt like exposing wounds that had long been buried, wounds I had pretended didn’t exist. But as much as it hurt, it was also freeing. Because healing doesn’t happen in the dark. And the more I brought those wounds into the light, the more I allowed God to step into those broken places, the less power they had over me. And something else began to happen, something I never expected. The joy I had started to feel? The gratitude? They weren’t just things I was trying to force. They weren’t just a mask I was wearing to convince myself that I was okay. They were real. They were radiating from me in a way I couldn’t explain.

I wasn’t just acting joyful, I was joyful.
I wasn’t just saying I was grateful, I felt it in my bones.
I wasn’t just trying to believe in Jesus, I knew Him now.

Somewhere along the way, faith had stopped being something I was reaching for, and it had become a part of who I was. I was no longer just a woman searching for God. I was His daughter. And for the first time in my life, I truly believed it.

I will never forget Easter on the ship that year (2024), it was my first time celebrating Easter as someone who truly believed in Jesus, and the weight of that was overwhelming. Before, Easter had been just another holiday, marked by chocolate eggs, family gatherings, and a vague awareness of its religious significance. But this time, it was different. This time, I understood. The entire ship came together to worship Him, to reflect on what He had done for us, not just as a distant historical event, but as a deeply personal act of love and redemption. God had sacrificed His Son so that we may be forgiven, always, for all sin. I had heard those words before, but I had never truly felt them. That Easter, for the first time, I felt it.

The ship’s international lounge had been transformed into the Garden of Gethsemane for the weekend, and as I stepped inside, it was as if I had been transported to another world. The air was thick with reverence. Everywhere I looked, there were plants, vines, and soft, flickering lights casting golden hues across the space. Cozy pillows and beanbags created small sanctuaries for prayer and reflection. It was peaceful. It was holy. And at the front of the room stood a giant cross, silent, towering, unshakable. A reminder of His suffering, His love, His victory.

I remember my hands trembling as I touched the floor, my fingers pressing into the cool surface as if grounding myself in something real, something holy. I lay down, my body sinking into the space, surrendering. Above me, the dim light flickered softly, casting a glow that felt almost otherworldly. It was as if I were being held in the quiet presence of something far greater than myself. The weight of it all, His sacrifice, His mercy, His love, pressed into my chest, making it hard to breathe. My heart, which had spent years guarded, restless, searching, cracked open in a way I had never known before.

I cried that night. Not just soft tears, not just quiet weeping, but tears that shook my entire being. I cried because, for the first time, I truly understood the depth of His sacrifice, not as a story I had heard, not as words spoken in a sermon, but as a love so vast, so undeserved, and yet so freely given. I cried because I finally understood how much God loved me, not in spite of my flaws, my brokenness, my past, but because He had known me all along. Every thought I had ever had. Every mistake I had ever made. Every wound I had carried in silence. And still, He had loved me. Not from a distance, but intimately, deeply, unconditionally. The love I had spent my entire life searching for, the love I had tried to earn, the love I had longed for in people, in places, in fleeting moments, had been right there, waiting for me all along. It had never wavered, never withdrawn, never ceased to pursue me. And now, finally, I saw it. I felt it. I knew it.

Something inside me shifted in that moment, an unshakable knowing, a certainty I had never felt before. My life would never be the same. Because now, I would always know Him. I would always belong to Him. Forever and always. And as I lay there, tears streaming, heart laid bare, I knew with absolute certainty that He had always known me too. And that was enough. That was everything.

As my faith deepened, as I continued to walk this path of discovery and surrender, a new question began to rise in my heart, one I couldn’t ignore.

Baptism.

It wasn’t just a word anymore. It wasn’t just something I had heard about or something I had read about in Scripture. It became a pull, a stirring deep within me, a longing I couldn’t quite explain but felt with every part of my soul. I started asking my friends about it, hesitantly at first.

What does baptism really mean?
How do you know when you’re ready?
What would it look like for me?

I listened as they shared their stories, their experiences, their own moments of stepping into the water. Each story was different, some had been baptized as children, others as adults, some had felt an instant transformation, others had experienced a quiet, steady confirmation of their faith. But at the heart of it, they all said the same thing: Baptism is an outward declaration of an inward transformation. A symbol of dying to the old self and rising again in Christ. A surrender. A choice. A public step of faith. And the more I learned, the more I prayed, the more I sat with the idea, the more certain I became. I wanted this.

Not because I felt pressured. Not because it was the next “logical step” in my faith journey. Not because it would make me more of a Christian. I wanted it because I loved Jesus. I wanted the world to know that I loved Him. I wanted to give everything to follow Him, not just in words, not just in private prayers, but in action, in commitment, in a moment that would mark my life forever. And yet, as much as my heart longed for it, there was still a quiet whisper of hesitation inside me.

Am I really worthy of this?
What if I’m not “good enough” yet?
What if I don’t fully understand everything about faith?

The enemy tried to plant seeds of doubt, to convince me that I wasn’t ready, that I needed to be more, more knowledgeable, more holy, more put together. But deep down, I knew the truth. I would never be ready in the way I thought I needed to be. I would never have all the answers. I would never reach a place where I felt like I had “earned” this. And that was the point.

Baptism wasn’t about arriving at some place of perfection, it was about stepping forward as I was, in faith, in surrender, trusting that God would continue the work He had already begun in me. So I let go of my fear. I let go of the doubts. And I made the decision. I would be baptized. I would stand before my friends, before my community, before God Himself, and declare that my life belonged to Jesus. I didn’t know what that moment would feel like. I didn’t know what it would change in me. All I knew was this: I was His. And I wanted the world to know.