Processing

On returning to the ship after what felt like one of the most challenging field services for so many of us, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about processing.

Coming back, I’ve had conversations in passing with friends, over coffee, in the dining room, cozied up in my cabin, where we ask each other: “How was your time away?” “Have you had a chance to process?” “Do you feel ready for the next field service?”

And every time I hear those questions, they linger in my mind.

Have I processed the last field service?

And if so, what does that even look like?

When I look back over my life, I can see clearly that the way I used to “process” things, whether it was a hard day at work, a fight with a friend, the breakdown of a relationship, or a traumatic event, wasn’t really processing at all. It was survival.

I would bury the pain deep inside, packing it down layer by layer, telling myself it was gone. But really, it was still there, alive under the surface, quietly waiting for the moment it would all spill out. And when it did, it often came out sideways, through anger, withdrawal, or habits that dulled the ache without ever healing it.

I had a whole arsenal of unhealthy coping mechanisms: staying endlessly busy so I wouldn’t have to think, running away from my problems, numbing myself with distractions and unhealthy habits, or shutting people out completely. I thought I was protecting myself. But in reality, I was building walls so high that no one, not even me, could see what was happening inside.

And then, I met Jesus.

Everything changed.

Now, I don’t want to paint some glossy picture and pretend that the moment I came into my faith, I suddenly knew exactly how to process pain in a healthy, godly way. That wouldn’t be honest. The truth is, I’m still learning. I’ll always be learning. I still stumble. I still have moments where the old me, the “old Ayla” wants to take back control, to run back to those habits that once made me feel safe but only did damage.

But here’s the difference: I know now that there is another way. A better way.

That way is Jesus.

When I read Matthew 11:28,“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest,” I hear an invitation, not just for those big life burdens, but for the everyday heaviness I carry. It’s an invitation to bring it all, the grief, the confusion, the unanswered questions, right to Him.

Processing with Jesus looks nothing like how I used to do it.

It’s not about numbing, avoiding, or pretending I’m fine. It’s about slowing down long enough to feel what I’m feeling, and then laying it at His feet. It’s about sitting with Him in the quiet, letting His presence be the place where I untangle the knots in my heart.

Sometimes that means opening my Bible and finding words that name my pain and anchor my hope. Sometimes it means writing until my thoughts become prayers on a page. Sometimes it’s walking in silence, letting creation remind me of God’s bigness when my problems feel overwhelming. And sometimes it’s just being still, whispering, “Jesus, I don’t know what to do with this, but I give it to You.”

Another verse that has become a lifeline for me is 1 Peter 5:7—
“Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.”

There is something profoundly freeing in knowing that I don’t have to hold it all. That I was never meant to. That the God who holds the universe is willing to hold me, my heart, my hurt, my processing, without judgment, without rush.

The difference now is that I’m not processing alone.

Before, I thought strength meant independence, that I had to sort through everything in my own mind and on my own terms. Now, I see that strength is dependence, dependence on the One who knows me better than I know myself.

And yes, I still journal. I still write. I still pray. But now, those aren’t just coping mechanisms, they’re communion. They’re sacred spaces where I meet with God, where my processing becomes prayer, where my pain becomes part of my testimony.

I’m learning that processing isn’t about “getting over” something. It’s about letting God walk with me through it. It’s about letting Him speak into the places I’ve tried to silence. It’s about trusting that He can handle the full weight of my heart.

And in that space, I am finding the courage to process.
To face what I’ve seen, to feel it fully, and to place it in His hands.
The kind of deep, soul-level processing that only He can guide me through.