DRAFTED
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.
✝️ From Altar Calls to Enlistment
Before I ever signed a mission trip waiver, I said yes at an altar. Again and again.
To Jesus. To purity. To purpose. To whatever they asked of me.
This section traces the beginning—those first yeses shaped by revival culture, youth group guilt, and the desperate desire to belong. I didn’t know I was being recruited. I thought I was being chosen.
Walk with me through the Sunday night sob sessions, the worship-fueled identity crisis, and the emotional buildup that made signing up for a missionary boot camp feel like destiny.
This wasn’t just a calling. It was conditioning dressed up in devotion.
✍️ Signed, Sealed, Sent
I was thirteen when I mailed off my first Global Expeditions application.
Not because I fully understood what missions meant—but because I was already fluent in sacrifice.
This section dives into the early years of training for a calling I didn’t know I could question. Fundraising like salvation depended on it. Praying like my worth was on the line. Wearing the title of “missionary” like armor and identity.
I was just a kid with a passport and a purity pledge, convinced that suffering for the gospel would make me whole.
I didn’t enlist under pressure. I volunteered with pride. That’s how good the conditioning was.
🥾 Boots on Holy Ground
I stepped off the bus in Garden Valley like I was entering holy ground.
Not a camp. Not a training center. A sacred battlefield.
This section captures the arrival—where worship filled the air, staff smiled like prophets, and the transformation had already begun.
We were told we were world changers. Chosen ones. Soldiers in a spiritual war.
I took it all in with awe. I prayed harder. Listened closer. Fasted more sincerely.
I wanted to be used by God—whatever that meant. And I believed every moment here was preparing me to carry something eternal.
This didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like purpose—finally.
✧ Counting Conversions and Carrying the Cost
We tracked salvations like treasure.
Hands raised. Cards filled out. Tears on dusty altars.
Every number was a soul. Every soul, a victory.
This section captures life on the mission field—dramas in town squares, testimonies through translators, prayer circles that lasted until sunset. I believed it mattered. I believed it worked. I believed we were changing the world.
The long days and spiritual highs were part of it. The homesickness, the exhaustion, the weight of eternity on our teenage shoulders—I didn’t question it.
I called it obedience. Sacrifice. A privilege.
They taught us to count conversions. And I carried the cost gladly—because I thought that’s what it meant to be chosen.
🛬 Foreign on Familiar Ground
Coming home was supposed to feel like rest.
Instead, I felt misplaced. Like I had left something holy behind—and couldn’t figure out how to carry it with me.
This section reflects on the aftermath of the mission trip: the jet lag no one warned us about, the spiritual adrenaline crash, the stories no one really asked to hear.
I had just done something big for God—but everyday life didn’t have space for that kind of bigness.
Youth group had moved on. My family was proud but didn’t quite get it.
And me? I couldn’t explain the ache I felt walking back into normal.
I didn’t lose my faith. But I did lose my footing. And I didn’t know how to come home as someone who had been sent.
📜 Called for Life
I didn’t stumble into this. I chased it. Prayed for it. Prepared my whole life for it.
This section is a letter to the girl who believed being “called” was the highest honor—and the heaviest responsibility. From altar calls to application deadlines, I was certain this was more than a phase. It was purpose. Identity. Destiny.
I didn’t know how to rest—only how to earn my place by staying useful.
The mission field gave me structure. The internship promised transformation.
And I was all in.
I wasn’t chasing a calling. I was following the only path where I’d ever felt chosen.
🛡️ Honor Bound
I arrived at the Honor Academy with more reverence than reason.
I had prayed. Fasted. Fundraised. Prepared.
This wasn’t just college or a gap year—it was a commission.
This section dives into the earliest days of my intern year: the gauntlet, the rules, the reverent fear of disappointing leadership.
“Honor” wasn’t just expected—it was required. And belonging came at the cost of becoming.
I kept my head down, my hands busy, and my spirit open. I thought obedience would equal transformation.
So I surrendered. Proudly. Publicly. Completely.
I wasn’t being manipulated—I was becoming who I thought God wanted me to be.
🪨 Tiny Cracks
It didn’t break all at once.
It started in whispers—quiet moments in my journal I didn’t know how to read yet.
This section traces the first signs of unraveling: fatigue I spiritualized, questions I silenced, pain I called pruning. I was still showing up, still performing with excellence, still the gold-star intern. But under the surface, something small had shifted.
The calling still felt holy. But my body was tired. My prayers were strained.
And parts of me were quietly asking, “Is this really what God requires?”
I didn’t know I was unraveling. I only knew it was getting harder to hold everything together.
