You’re Allowed to Let Go—Or to Hold On
When You Outgrow the Coping Mechanisms That Saved You. Letting go of what helped you survive isn’t betrayal—it’s evolution. And sometimes it's ok to keep what works for you.
When You Outgrow the Coping Mechanisms That Saved You
Letting go of what helped you survive isn’t betrayal—it’s evolution.
There’s a strange kind of grief that comes when something that once brought you peace… now brings you pain.
For years, you may have found real comfort in your faith practices.
Daily quiet time.
Prayer journaling.
Singing worship songs in the car with tears in your eyes.
Small groups where you felt seen.
Bible studies where the verses felt like they were written just for you.
You weren’t faking it.
Those moments were real.
The connection was real.
The comfort, the safety, the sense of being grounded—it all meant something.
But maybe now… those same practices feel empty.
Or worse—triggering.
A worship song that once lifted your spirit now makes your stomach tighten.
A passage you once clung to now brings confusion or frustration.
The quiet moments of prayer now echo with silence—or old scripts you no longer believe.
And here’s the hard part:
Those things helped you.
They were coping mechanisms in the best possible sense.
They gave you structure, meaning, peace—a connection to something bigger.
They helped you feel loved and safe when you needed it most.
So when they stop working—when they fall flat or start to hurt—it can feel like a betrayal. It can feel like losing a friend.
Or like losing yourself.
But here’s what I want to say:
You’re not broken because those things don’t work anymore.
You’re not bitter or hard-hearted or spiritually lost.
You’ve simply outgrown a container that once fit you.
That’s not betrayal.
That’s transformation.
And yeah… it can feel confusing.
Conflicting.
Even devastating.
But it’s also an invitation.
To grieve with gratitude.
To honor what was.
To make space for what comes next.
And—oh yeah.
If something still works for you, even now, even if it “shouldn’t”?
If you still pray the same way and it brings you peace…
If you still read the Bible every morning and it gives you hope…
That doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.
And it doesn’t mean you’re just delaying the inevitable.
Some things really do last.
I’ve got a few myself.
Journaling never stopped working for me.
Sure, the language has changed—what started as letters to God are now something quieter, deeper. But the act itself never let go of me.
And then there’s the stuff I can’t fully explain.
I grew up in a community with Rich Mullins.
He was a popular Christian artist—best known for “Our God Is an Awesome God”—and while his music wasn’t perfect, his soul was rare. He was a free thinker. A poetic mess. A just-okay singer who wrote transcendent lyrics. And he died way too young.
Once or twice a year, I find myself feeling heavy. Sad. A little lost.
And so I put on Rich’s music.
There are lines in nearly every song that no longer line up with what I believe.
Some of the production sounds like it belongs in a 1987 youth group time capsule. I should’t want to listen to it.
But it’s my heart music.
It connects me to something deep and old and steady.
To a Mystery I felt before I tried to understand it all.
To a Love that was with me before I had language for it.
Old hymns do that for me too.
How Great Thou Art. What a Friend We Have in Jesus.
Those still work for me.
On the flip side, play me Shout to the Lord or Lord I Lift Your Name on High, and my anxiety spikes. Suddenly I’m back in the church—not as a kid in youth group, but as a young pastor. Leading a church. Trying to inspire people.
Pretending I had answers to their questions—when I didn’t even have answers to my own.
That music drops me right into the middle of my old inner conflict.
Not because it was fake. But because I was drowning, and I didn’t know it yet.
It’s all relative.
All of it.
And maybe that’s the point.
This isn’t about right or wrong.
It’s about honoring your journey.
What held you once may not hold you now.
And what still holds you might not make sense to anyone else.
That’s okay.
You’re allowed to let go.
You’re allowed to hold on.
You’re allowed to not know the difference yet.
Just keep going.
Gently.
You're evolving.
And that’s holy too.
Surrender don't come natural to me
I'd rather fight You for something I don't really want
Than to take what You give that I need
And I've beat my head against so many walls
Now I'm falling down, I'm falling on my knees
And this Salvation Army band is playing this hymn
And Your grace rings out so deep
It makes my resistance seem so thin
I'm singing hold me, Jesus, 'cause I'm shaking like a leaf
You have been King of my glory
Won't You be my Prince of Peace?
—Rich Mullins, Hold Me Jesus (A song I now fully love, mostly understand, and partially believe.)
Joe, this is the liturgy I didn’t know I needed today.
We were handed coping mechanisms wrapped in scriptures and stained glass—tools that helped us survive the fire. But no one warned us that healing would sometimes mean dropping the torch.
And still, when we finally let go of what once held us together, someone always shows up to call it “backsliding.”
But what if it’s not falling away?
What if it’s falling in—to the bigger Love behind the scaffolding?
You said it perfectly: it’s not betrayal, it’s evolution.
It’s holy confusion. Divine composting.
A sacred unraveling that smells like grief and incense and freedom.
And yes—some of us still pray.
Some still sing hymns with tears in their eyes, even if they don’t believe every line.
Because Mystery doesn’t demand doctrinal loyalty—it asks for presence.
Thank you for making room for both the letting go and the holding on.
This is what real faith looks like when it grows up.
—Virgin Monk Boy
Retired Ladder-Climber. Full-time Pilgrim of the Holy "I Don’t Know."
Great post! I never realized I was dealing with PTSD-like trauma after leaving my job at the church. The one I had attended for just over 12 years. I may not have dealt with the level of trauma had I been a only a church attender, but because I was church staff for 8yrs and walked the hard road of church ickiness for the last 1-2yrs, it was very real.
It took a friend and previous co-worker to affirm what I was feeling and what so many other church staff were feeling. There are still many triggers. Certain songs, a person's name, pastors/preachers, someone saying they will pray for me, someone giving me a cliche Christian saying, etc. All of this gives me immediate anxiety and feeling like I want to crawl out of my skin.
I still love Jesus and still have my faith, but like you have shared...it just looks different now. I WANT it to look different, because the way it was before is not my path forward in living out my beliefs. What has always been there and continues to be there, is the beauty I find in my every day surroundings. Finding the good in all things. Making sure people in my presence feel noticed, heard, and walk away better for being with me. I frequently talk to God about the things that I see that remind me of Him. All of this is where I find comfort and peace, noticing the small things that have been given to all of us as a gift to savor and enjoy.