Letter From an Ex-Missionary Kid

I couldn’t continue doing the whole feeling-absolutely-insignificant-while-putting-up-the-perfect-missionary-kid-image anymore. I was tired. I was sad. I wanted to feel right in my own skin again.

Shortly after my dad got sober, my parents got back together. Dad then visited the Dominican Republic and decided God was calling us to be missionaries on the beach in Costa Rica. Mom was game for that. Then, he realized he stood corrected; God actually wanted us to move to a remote village in the Dominican Republic hours from the beach (despite being on a literal island). Mom was not so game for that, and neither were us daughters. Then, we visited the village and fell in love. So, we sold our worldly possessions and moved to this beautifully unfamiliar place.

Super powerful story, right? It is one I am still incredibly proud of. My parents worked hard to stay together. They worked hard to keep our family functional, and they still do. I am so proud of the man my dad has become in his sobriety and the continued work my parents put into their marriage. 

Their story quickly began to feel like my very own, something to brag enthusiastically about to the mission teams who swarmed our village every few months. Also, the continued work my parents did in their ministries was incredible. As was my sister’s English teaching and veterinary efforts for the dogs in the community. 

When mission teams came to the village or when we’d visit our church in the US, I was swarmed with praise. I was told how “unique and impressive” I was and how I was “such a brave young woman.” Strangers would want to get pictures with me because I was the missionary kid!  I was a Southern Baptist celebrity, and the theater kid in me was thriving on the attention. I loved it. Until I didn’t. 

As time went on and I got older and more mature, my story started to feel very insignificant in the swarm of my family’s accomplishments. It felt like I couldn’t live up to the expectations the church placed on me. I could no longer piggyback off of my family’s stories; I had to get my own. I thought I was unworthy of the attention and praise I got from missions teams. I wasn’t special. I was the bad missionary. Every praise given and picture taken was no longer positive, but damaging. At night I’d sit in bed believing that I was undeserving of it all. I felt ashamed in the eyes of the church. I felt ashamed in the eyes of my family. I felt ashamed in the eyes of everyone in our village. But, most importantly, I felt ashamed in the eyes of God. 

Not only did my story piggyback off of my family’s, but my faith did, too. I began to feel incredibly unworthy of God and all that this role had put upon me. I hid away for a long time in our home, rarely coming out to see other people in the village. I felt I was too far gone. Here I was helpless even though I was supposed to be the helper. 

This spiraled into a hyper-fixation on my physical appearance and how I appeared to the world. It was something I could fix quickly, unlike my mental health. I developed serious body dysmorphia, shaping my self-worth with how small I looked. If I looked small, I could feel small, and all the big problems would have no room to harm me. 

Then, there was a night when my self-loathing really took over. It was three a.m. and I could not sleep because of all the shame. Darkness surrounded me that night; I just felt like I had to give up. I couldn’t continue doing the whole feeling-absolutely-insignificant-while-putting-up-the-perfect-missionary-kid-image anymore. I was tired. I was sad. I wanted to feel right in my own skin again. And that’s when I heard a voice in my head telling me to open my Bible, which I had not done in a very long time. When I did, this was the verse I found,

Psalm 4:8. “In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, LORD, make me dwell in safety.”

And then, I slept. It was probably some of the best sleep I’ve had in my life. In the morning, that darkness was still trying to get in, and it still does. It repeatedly tries to kick me down. One significant, touching night will not change the darkness continuing to battle me, but it did teach me something I must continuously remind myself: 

It is not in the crowd and the praise and the attention that I will find my worth. In fact, those are the exact places that will eventually tear it down. It is in the quiet, personal moments with God. The silent three a.m. moments when you have no energy left to give, when all you can do is lie down and sleep and seek security in God and God alone.

I wish I could say that after that night, my entire self-identity was cured. However, that is not true. Finding faith is not about the bad stuff going away, but it’s about getting equipped with the best armor to stop the bad stuff from getting too big. It is about seeking something greater. 

When my family moved back to the US, we were no longer celebrities. We had become the ex-missionaries, gasp. However, this armor helped that label feel more bearable. It helped it become easier to fade into the background.

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