Drafted: Signed, Sealed, Sent — My Introduction to Teen Mania’s Global Expeditions

The Mail That Felt Like a Mission

Drafted is the story of a girl who was told she was called, chosen, and set apart — before she even knew who she was. It’s about the rush of revival weekends, the pressure to be holy, and the slow, silent trade of identity for belonging. I grew up on the frontlines of teenage Christianity, armed with a Bible, a purity ring, and a deep need to be enough. If you’ve watched Shiny Happy People, you’ve seen part of the story. But there are thousands of high-control Christian environments that shaped a generation — and I was in one of them. Teen Mania Ministries. Acquire the Fire. The Honor Academy. Follow me as I unravel what it looked like from the inside: faith on fire, identity on the line, and a girl who thought she was saving the world — but was slowly losing herself.
This is my reckoning with the years I spent disappearing into goodness — the story of how I lost my humanity in the name of holiness, and the slow, sacred work of reclaiming it.

📖 This picks up after Part One — where I shared how I became “on fire for God” at ten years old. If you’re wondering how we got from youth group to global missions, start there: “From Altar Calls to Enlistment.”

The missions pamphlets arrived like military orders — a clear next step for a soldier who had already enlisted at the altar. I read them with the wide-eyed urgency of a child already convinced she was needed. What I didn’t know was that I was being mobilized — not just for ministry, but for a system I didn’t yet understand.

I wasn’t actually old enough for a missions trip that year. I had just turned eleven when the pamphlets started arriving — and I was crushed to see the age requirement column filled with “must be 13,” “must be 15,” and “must be 16.”
I told myself it just meant I had more time to prepare. More time to prove I was ready.

I stayed laser-focused on being a “worldchanger”, counting down the days until the next Acquire the Fire. I completed my Acquire the Fire-branded devotional, had a “read the Bible in a year” calendar taped to my wall, and tried to talk my parents into keeping the Columbia House CD subscription I had secretly signed up for (they didn’t).
That Christmas, all I asked for was a True Love Waits purity ring.
Not toys. Not clothes.
Just something to wear — an external symbol of my internal commitment.

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🔥 My second Acquire the Fire felt different.

This time, I knew what to expect.
I was already hooked — craving the emotional high like a fix, desperate to feel chosen again.

The lights, the music, the altar calls — they weren’t the ignition.
They were a firehose of gasoline on an already burning building.

This time, it wasn’t curiosity or wonder that filled me.
It was desperation.

I wasn’t being swept up in emotion — I was chasing it. Craving it.

I journaled prayers in the hotel room between sessions.
Devoured every word from the stage.
Pored over the pamphlets like they were sacred texts.
Took notes like I was preparing for war.

I had never felt more alive.
And I had never felt more afraid to mess it up.

The pressure was quiet, but heavy — be pure. Be faithful. Be surrendered. Be strong. Be enough.

It didn’t feel like pressure back then.
It felt like purpose.

🧠 Now, as a therapist, I recognize this for what it was: spiritualized performance conditioning. I wasn’t just learning to follow God — I was learning to abandon parts of myself to stay worthy of being seen.

And I carried that fire straight into what came next:
The junior missions trip brochure that felt like an assignment from heaven.

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💫 Handpicked by Heaven

Not long after that second Acquire the Fire, I found out Teen Mania was launching something new — their first-ever junior missions trip.

Ages 11 to 13.

I felt like God had cracked open heaven just for me.
Like all the yearning, the striving, the altar calls and purity pledges had finally reached His ears.
This was it.
Divine intervention, perfectly personalized.
A holy green light.

There it was again — that feeling. The one that made my chest burn and my spine straighten.
The feeling that I’d been chosen.
Not just called in the abstract — but handpicked.

I don’t remember having to convince my parents, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer.
After all, I’d be doing the Lord’s work.

I got on the phone with my Global Expeditions rep almost immediately, eager to complete the application process.
It all felt so official. So sacred.
Like I had just stepped into my destiny.

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💰 Counting the Cost

Not too long after submitting my application, I received the welcome packet.
It came in a big white envelope, stuffed with official-looking paperwork I handed off to my mom, glowing testimonies from past trips, a t-shirt, and several documents about fundraising.

Ah yes — the cost.

I had signed up to serve.
I hadn’t realized I’d have to sell myself to do it.

🧠 From a clinical lens, this was the moment the narrative of worthiness became transactional. I wasn’t just believing for a mission — I was learning that my faith had to be performative, persuasive, and externally validated.

Something shifted in me here — quietly, but deeply.
Something that would be reinforced for the next decade of my life.

It wasn’t just that I believed in the mission.
I had bought into the culture.
Into the belonging.
Into the idea that being chosen meant being willing to sacrifice.

And I was.
I would’ve given anything.
To serve.
To be seen.
To belong.

But now came a new kind of proving — not just to God, but to others.
I had to convince people I was called.
Called enough to be worth investing in.

The first step was writing support letters.

They gave me templates — full of phrases like “partner with me in advancing the Kingdom” and “God has opened this door and I’m stepping out in faith.”
I copied them carefully, adding my own sincerity in the margins.

I was twelve years old.
Begging for money.
But I didn’t think of it that way.
I thought I was inviting people to be part of something eternal.

I sent them to relatives, church friends — anyone who might care enough to fund a middle school missionary.
Every dollar raised felt like confirmation.
Every silence felt like failure.

I started to believe that God’s calling could be measured in donations.

🧠 So many of us who grew up in performance-based faith internalized this connection: if you are truly “called,” others will affirm it. You’ll be supported. If they don’t — it must be a you problem.

I was fortunate to have an incredibly supportive church home.
I’d been part of the same congregation since I was two years old — and they believed in me.

But even with all that support, it was a small church.
Raising over $2,000 wasn’t going to be easy.

I scoured the “101 Fundraising Ideas” document from my welcome packet and picked a few to try:
Bake sales. Garage sales. Babysitting.
And — yes — even selling eggs.
Not to eat.
To let people crack them on my head.

All for the cause.

Because I believed the cause was worth it.
And maybe, deep down, I believed I had to prove I was too.

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⏳ Almost There

I met my fundraising deadlines — barely — and was finally starting to feel excited.
I was really going to do it.
My bags weren’t packed yet, but my heart was already on the mission field.

I was mission-ready when a personal war broke out at home.

My uncle died suddenly at a theme park.
He was only thirty.

The shock hit like a grenade — instant, disorienting, and loud.
It sent my entire family spiraling into a fog of grief.

But me?

I barely cried.
I didn’t stop.
I didn’t slow down.

I wouldn’t let anything — not even grief — get in the way of my calling.
Not now. Not this close.

🧠 I can see it now: the beginnings of emotional suppression in the name of spiritual discipline. This wasn’t maturity. It was masking.

I had already internalized the message:
God’s work comes first.
Even if it means burying your pain to prove you’re faithful.

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✈️ Spoiler Alert: I Still Went

I still went.
Of course I did.

I had been building my identity around this for years — and not once did I consider backing out.
Besides, how could I dwell on my own grief when the people I was going to minister to were facing eternal damnation if I didn’t obey the call?

In fact, I took it as a test.
A divine obstacle.
A chance to prove I was serious. Faithful. Unshakable.

I boarded that plane to Garden Valley, Texas with my journal, my Bible, my matching t-shirt — and the kind of spiritual intensity only a middle schooler convinced she was saving the world can carry.

I didn’t know it then, but something had already shifted.

This wasn’t just a summer trip.
This was identity formation in real time.
This was me learning how to trade emotion for endurance.
Grief for grit.
Myself for the mission.

And I was just getting started.

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🪑 From the Therapist’s Chair

When I look back on this season through the lens of a mental health professional, what strikes me most is how early the conditioning began. I wasn’t just shaped by doctrine — I was shaped by a system that equated spiritual devotion with emotional suppression, obedience with worthiness, and suffering with sanctification.

What I know now — and what I want you to know — is that identity doesn’t have to be earned. Belonging shouldn’t hinge on sacrifice. And your worth was never meant to be proven through performance.

If parts of this story feel familiar — if you too were the kid who journaled prayers, wrote fundraising letters, and pressed down your pain to feel “used by God” — you’re not alone.

This is the work of healing: naming what happened, feeling what couldn’t be felt then, and reclaiming the parts of ourselves we were taught to give away.

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👉 Coming up next: Garden Valley, Texas. Matching shirts. Assigned accountability partners.
My first taste of spiritual boot camp at Teen Mania HQ.
Read the next post: Boots on Holy Ground — Teenage Training for the Mission Field.