I grew up in a Christian home to parents that were faithful believers in Jesus. I went to a Christian school were scripture memorization was mandatory and chapel was a weekly event. Then I attended a Christian college where my Bible became a textbook no matter what your major and Chapel attendance was required three times a week coupled with three available church services that were highly encouraged. I was surrounded by faith and theologians nearly all my life. So when I entered my first season of depression, the fear that my faith was not authentic resulted in an exhausting works-based, self-dependent attempt at salvation and freedom. But nothing about my effort brought me hope that I would really make it out of that season alive, physically or mentally. When I finally reached the bottom, I confided in a friend that I felt “unwell.” Turns out, she was standing next to me on the same quicksand. The feeling of community in that place was the first crack in the ice that would eventually give way to the depth of grace yet to be realized.