Life felt like Disneyland when I was growing up. It seemed like the happiest place on earth. Our little family—Dad, Mom, my brother, and me—went camping almost every weekend. Our favorite spot was Newport Dunes in Newport Beach, California. We would load up the bubble-top, baby-blue van and head out, full of excitement.
On the outside, everything looked fun and carefree. But on the inside, something was breaking.
Silently and slowly, our “perfect family” was cracking. My dad was a working-class alcoholic, and up until the age of fourteen, I almost always saw him with a beer in his hand—after work, while driving, at events, and even while camping. What once felt safe began to feel unstable.
My dad also struggled with depression. Many nights my mom would comfort him, with my brother and me standing close by. He was a fun dad in many ways, but he carried deep emotional wounds that shaped our home more than I understood at the time.
It was during those formative years that I sensed something was wrong. I believed—rightly or wrongly—that my dad loved alcohol more than he loved me. I longed for him to see me, to teach me, to spend time with me. Yet at every sports event I participated in—track and field, baseball, football, soccer—I searched the stands, and only my mom was there.
One day, my dad made a promise to my brother and me. He promised to take each of us on a separate camping trip, teach us how to fish, and show us how to be a man. I was eight years old and thrilled. My dad took my brother first. He was four years older. When they returned, my brother carried a sense of joy and pride. At times, he would tease me, saying Dad loved him more.
I told myself, I’m next. I’ll have that relationship too.
Month after month I asked, “Dad, when are we going camping?” Each time, with a beer in his hand, he answered, “You’re too young, Brad. I’ll take you when you get older.”
The next year I asked again. The answer was the same.
At age twelve, my parents divorced because of my dad’s alcoholism.
Looking back, I see that what hurt me most wasn’t just disappointment—it was what I began to believe.
It was as if a voice whispered into my young heart: You will always be too young. You are not good enough. Your dad doesn’t even love you. If he rejected you, others will too.
That lie became the first crack that made the night feel endless. I believed something was wrong with me—and that belief followed me for years.
HELP
John 8:44
You are of your father the devil, and the desires of your father you want to do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and does not stand in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaks a lie, he speaks from his own resources, for he is a liar and the father of it. (NKJV)
What I experienced as a child was not just pain—it was the planting of a lie.
Depression and emotional pain often take root when we believe something untrue about ourselves, God, or our circumstances. In my case, the lie was simple but devastating: I am not good enough.
One of the key steps in overcoming depression is identifying the lies we have accepted as truth. Lies create emotional turmoil because they distort reality.
In John 8, Jesus teaches us that deception is central to Satan’s character. He is called “the father of lies,” meaning lies originate with him. His strategy is not always obvious temptation, but quiet distortion—causing us to believe the worst about ourselves and our situations so that we become trapped in hopelessness.
The Greek word for “lie” is pseudos, which means a deliberate distortion of reality. When we believe a lie, we begin living inside a false reality, and over time, that false reality shapes how we see ourselves, others, and even God.
The lie I believed as a child sounded like this:
My dad never took me camping and said I was not old enough. Therefore, I am not good enough. And just as my dad rejected me, others will reject me too.
That lie was only amplified when a new father figure entered my life. After the divorce, my mother married my stepfather, who was older than she was and already had grown children in their mid-twenties. I was only around ten years old at the time.
Early on, he made something painfully clear: he did not want to be a father to us. He told us he would be present, but he would not be our dad. His children were already grown, and he had no desire to start over.
Those words landed like a heavy stone on a lie I already believed. My father did not want me—and now my stepfather did not want me either. The conclusion felt unavoidable: I am not good enough.
This is how the enemy works. He whispers a lie and then reinforces it through experiences that appear to confirm it. Over time, those lies wrap around the heart, shaping identity and producing deep emotional trauma.
That lie did not come from God—but it affected my life profoundly until it was exposed and replaced by truth.
Here are 10 truths about the lies we believe:
- “What we repeatedly tell ourselves becomes the framework through which we interpret reality.”
- “Unexamined beliefs often shape behavior more powerfully than conscious decisions.”
- “A false narrative accepted early in life can quietly govern identity for decades.”
- “Emotional distress often persists not because of what happened, but because of the meaning assigned to what happened.”
- “Beliefs formed in pain tend to feel true long after they stop being accurate.”
- “When a lie is internalized, it no longer needs reinforcement—it sustains itself.”
- “The mind seeks conistency, even if the story it settles on is damaging.”
- “Identity shaped by rejection will instinctively expect rejection everywhere.”
- “Healing begins when distorted beliefs are named, challenged, and replaced with truth.”
- “Freedom is rarely the absence of struggle; it is the correction of the story we believe about ourselves within the struggle.”
Now let us turn to God and His word and listen to the voice of truth .
DEVOTIONAL
The Cry of a Soul in the Night
Psalm 42:5–11 (NKJV)
Why are you cast down, O my soul?
And why are you disquieted within me?
Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him,
For the help of His countenance.
O my God, my soul is cast down within me;
Therefore I will remember You from the land of the Jordan,
And from the heights of Hermon,
From the Hill Mizar.
Deep calls unto deep at the noise of Your waterfalls;
All Your waves and billows have gone over me.
The LORD will command His lovingkindness in the daytime,
And in the night His song shall be with me—
A prayer to the God of my life.
I will say to God my Rock,
“Why have You forgotten me?
Why do I go mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?”
As with a breaking of my bones,
My enemies reproach me,
While they say to me all day long,
“Where is your God?”
Why are you cast down, O my soul?
And why are you disquieted within me?
Hope in God;
For I shall yet praise Him,
The help of my countenance and my God.
Psalm 42 is not written from the mountaintop. It is written from the valley of despair. The psalmist does not hide his pain, nor does he rush toward resolution. Instead, he gives us something sacred: an honest conversation between a suffering soul and a faithful God.
Those who struggle with depression, anxiety, or emotional pain are not alone. Even those who deeply loved God wrestled with sorrow and inner turmoil. Yet Scripture reminds us that God meets us not only in strength, but also in weakness.
The repeated question in this psalm sets the tone:
“Why are you cast down, O my soul?
And why are you disquieted within me?” (vv. 5, 11)
This is not unbelief. It is faith refusing to go silent in the darkness.
The phrase “cast down” describes a soul bowed low under heavy weight. “Disquieted” speaks of inner noise, agitation, and unrest—a soul unable to find peace even when the body is still.
Have you ever felt that way—exhausted, yet unable to rest?
This psalm assures us that such experiences are known to God, and that hope remains even when the night feels endless.
Talking to the Soul
One of the most important truths in this passage is who the psalmist addresses. He speaks not only to God, but to his own soul.
This is not self-help. It is biblical self-exhortation. The psalmist acknowledges his feelings but refuses to let them define reality. He brings his emotions into the presence of God and allows truth—not feelings—to speak last.
Hope That Is Spoken, Not Felt
The psalmist does not say, “I feel hopeful.” He says, “Hope in God.”
Biblical hope is not emotional denial. It is a decision to trust God’s character when circumstances remain unresolved. Pain may speak loudly, but hope refuses to leave.
When God Feels Distant
The psalmist admits feeling far from God—emotionally and spiritually—yet chooses to remember God in his distance. This is a biblical act. To remember is to call to mind what is true when circumstances argue otherwise. The bible says in 2 Corinthians 10:5 that we should take every thought (lie) captive and make our thoughts obedient to God.
Emotions change. God does not. So set your mind on the things of God and you will make it through the battle and you shall not be moved.
Deep Calls to Deep
The picture of waves and waterfalls helps us understand what pain can feel like when it comes one after another. It can be exhausting and overwhelming, like there is no time to rest before the next wave arrives. But the psalmist reminds us of something comforting: these waves have not slipped past God. He sees the pain you are carrying. And even though suffering is hard and heavy, God can meet you in it and gently draw you closer to Himself and out of the pit of despair.
Steady Love in the Night
God’s hesed—His covenant love—does not disappear at night. It follows us into darkness with a quiet song of faithfulness. God does not abandon His people in the night, and He will not abandon you.
A Word for the One Who Is Struggling
If the night feels endless, know this: God will not rush you. He will walk with you and gently lead you forward.
Your past does not define you. God does.
The dawn may not yet be visible—but hope is already stirring.
Keep walking with God, and you will see the dawning of a new day.
ANCHOR
Psalm 77:11–12
I will remember the works of the LORD; Surely I will remember Your wonders of old. I will also meditate on all Your work, And talk of Your deeds.
Lamentations 3:22–23
Through the LORD’s mercies we are not consumed, Because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning; Great is Your faithfulness.
Isaiah 43:18–19
Do not remember the former things, Nor consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing, Now it shall spring forth; Shall you not know it? I will even make a road in the wilderness And rivers in the desert.
2 Corinthians 5:17
Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.
Philippians 3:13–14
Brethren, I do not count myself to have apprehended; but one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, I press toward the goal for the prize of the upward call
REFLECTION QUESTIONS
What thoughts or memories am I returning to in the night that may be shaping my emotions more than God’s truth, and how can I intentionally place those before Him today?
In what ways might God be inviting me to speak hope to my own soul, even when my feelings have not yet caught up with what I believe?
If God’s mercies are truly new every morning, what would it look like for me to receive today as a new beginning rather than a repetition of yesterday’s pain?
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