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Worth Fighting For

Writer: Joel Carter.Jr
Joel Carter.Jr
Oct 19
13 min read

Lately, I've been listening to two songs almost every day for the past week: Worth by Anthony Brown & group therAPy and Worth Fighting For by Brian Courtney Wilson.

And I don't know what it is about these two songs, but every time I listen to them, I find myself in a place of worship.

Not because everything in my life is going perfectly. Not because I have all the answers. And definitely not because I've figured out everything God is doing in this season of my life.

But because I'm reminded that He thought I was worth saving.

Sometimes, that alone is enough to bring me to tears.

I've been thinking about what it really means to be worth fighting for. Not just my purpose, my calling, or the things I believe God has placed inside of me, but the simple fact that God saw something in me before I could recognize it in myself.

And sometimes, I have to admit, I don't always feel worthy.

There are moments when I look at my circumstances, my finances, the transitions I'm navigating, and everything I'm still trying to figure out, and I wonder whether I'm making any progress at all.

Sometimes I'm tired of fighting the same battles.

Sometimes I feel like I'm turning corner after corner, only to find another problem waiting for me.

But lately, I've been reminded of something:

There's no corner I can turn where God cannot reach me.

Even when life has me backed into a corner, God hasn't disappeared.

And I think that's something we need to talk about more, especially as believers.

We believe in God, but sometimes we struggle to believe what He says about us.

One thing I've learned is that being a Christian doesn't mean you're automatically free from doubt.

A 2017 Barna study found that 65% of Americans who identified as Christian or formerly Christian had experienced spiritual doubt at some point.

That number caught my attention.

Because we often talk about doubt as though it's something only people outside the church experience.

But what about those of us who love God, attend church, worship, pray, and still have questions?

What about the person who can encourage everybody else but struggles to encourage themselves?

What about the person who knows scripture but still feels overwhelmed by what they're facing?

I've been there.

And although spiritual doubt and struggling with self-worth aren't exactly the same thing, I think the research reminds us that having questions is part of many people's faith journeys.

Sometimes we know what scripture says, but we're still learning how to trust it in the middle of our circumstances.

We can quote Romans 8:38–39, which teaches that nothing can separate us from God's love in Christ Jesus, and still find ourselves wondering whether God is disappointed in us.

We can know John 3:16 and still struggle to understand why God would love us so deeply.

But here's what I've been sitting with:

God didn't wait until we became worthy by our own standards to demonstrate His love.

He loved us first.

Before we got everything together. Before we figured out our purpose. Before we learned how to make every right decision.

And that changes how I think about my life.

Sometimes survival came before healing.

There's another part of this conversation that I think deserves our attention.

When we talk about mental health, emotional well-being, and self-worth, we also have to acknowledge that not everybody grew up in an environment where there was room to process those things.

For many families, particularly in communities that have experienced generations of economic hardship, discrimination, or limited access to resources, survival often came first.

And I think about the generations before us.

The mothers and fathers who had to get up and go to work regardless of how they felt.

The grandparents who carried responsibilities nobody else knew about.

The people who were grieving, struggling, or emotionally exhausted but still had children to feed, rent to pay, and a household to maintain.

Sometimes there wasn't time to sit down and process everything.

Not because those feelings didn't matter.

But because the bills were still due.

The lights still needed to stay on.

And missing work could mean falling behind on rent or losing the stability a family had worked so hard to build.

According to the Federal Reserve's 2024 Survey of Household Economics and Decisionmaking, 37% of U.S. adults said they could not cover an unexpected $400 expense entirely with cash or its equivalent.

And 13% said they couldn't cover that expense by any means.

Those numbers aren't specific to Christians or minority households, but they help illustrate something important: financial pressure can leave people with very little room to respond when life becomes difficult.

And when you're trying to survive, caring for your emotional health can become something you keep pushing to the side.

I'll deal with it later.

I'll rest when things settle down.

I'll process that when I have time.

But sometimes later becomes years.

And sometimes we carry things into adulthood that we never really had the opportunity to work through.

I don't say that to criticize the generations before us.

In many ways, I admire their resilience.

They made sacrifices that gave many of us opportunities they never had.

But I also wonder whether part of honoring those sacrifices is learning how to care for ourselves in ways they may not have been able to.

We can appreciate the strength it took to survive while also recognizing that survival and healing aren't always the same thing.

And maybe that's something our generation has an opportunity to do differently.

Not by rejecting everything we were taught.

But by building on it.

What happens when we don't have room to process what we've experienced?

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reports that 61% of adults in a study across 25 states had experienced at least one adverse childhood experience, while approximately one in six had experienced four or more.

These experiences can include abuse, neglect, exposure to violence, or serious instability within the household.

Research has linked childhood adversity with increased risks of depression, substance misuse, and other challenges later in life.

That doesn't mean everybody who experiences trauma will develop those struggles.

And it doesn't mean that every unhealthy pattern comes from trauma.

But it reminds me that sometimes there's more happening beneath the surface than we realize.

Sometimes people are struggling with unhealthy relationships, compulsive behaviors, substance use, or patterns they desperately want to change.

Sometimes they're trying to cope with pain they haven't learned how to process.

And sometimes we only see the behavior without understanding the experience behind it.

I think that's where compassion and accountability have to work together.

We can encourage people to make better decisions while also recognizing that some people need support, treatment, and time to heal.

And that brings me back to something I've been thinking about.

God doesn't just see the broken pieces. He sees what can still be built from them.

Even dirt can become living soil.

Something that looks lifeless can become the environment where something new begins to grow.

And I wonder how often we look at ourselves and only see what's wrong while God is still calling us toward restoration.

Psalm 147:3 speaks of God healing the brokenhearted and binding up their wounds.

I love that scripture because it acknowledges that wounds exist.

It doesn't pretend people never get hurt.

It reminds us that healing matters.

Faith, culture, and the conversations we still need to have.

I think this conversation becomes even more important when we consider the experiences of Black Americans and other communities of color.

A 2023 KFF survey examined mental health care access across racial and ethnic groups.

Among adults who described their mental health as fair or poor, 50% of White adults reported receiving mental health services within the previous three years, compared with 39% of Black adults and 36% of Hispanic adults.

And among adults who needed mental health care but didn't seek a provider, cost and scheduling were major barriers.

Thirty-seven percent said they believed care would be too expensive, while 31% said they were too busy or couldn't take time off.

Those percentages are for the surveyed adults who reported needing care but didn't try to find a provider, not specifically Christians.

Still, I think those findings deserve our attention.

Because sometimes the issue isn't that somebody doesn't want help.

Sometimes they don't know where to begin.

Sometimes they can't afford it.

Sometimes they can't take off work.

And sometimes they wonder whether the person they're talking to will understand their background, their experiences, or the environment they grew up in.

KFF also found that among adults who received or sought mental health care, 46% of Black adults reported difficulty finding a provider who understood their background and experiences, compared with 38% of White adults.

And I think about how much that matters.

Because being able to talk about what you're experiencing is one thing.

Feeling understood is another.

Especially when your experiences are connected to your family, culture, faith, finances, or the expectations you've carried for years.

I believe these are conversations worth having.

Not to suggest that one community is doing everything wrong.

But to ask how we can make support more accessible and how we can become more understanding of one another.

And what about our churches, small groups, and everyday circles?

I want to be clear about something.

This isn't about coming against the church.

I love the church. I believe in the importance of Christian community, fellowship, worship, prayer, and having people who can encourage us in our walk with God.

And I believe many churches are already doing meaningful work to support people through difficult seasons.

In fact, a 2017 Lifeway Research survey found that 54% of churchgoers said their church encouraged psychological counseling or therapy for mental illness.

Only 2% said their church discouraged it.

I think that's worth recognizing.

Because sometimes conversations about faith and mental health focus only on what churches aren't doing, while overlooking the ministries, pastors, counselors, and everyday believers who are already helping people.

But I also think we can continue growing.

Not just as churches.

As people.

As friends.

As families.

As small groups.

As the circles we choose to surround ourselves with.

Are we creating spaces where people can be honest without feeling like they have to explain away everything they're experiencing?

Can somebody in our circle admit they're struggling without immediately being judged?

Can someone say they're tired without being made to feel weak?

Can somebody talk about their mental health without feeling like their relationship with God is being questioned?

And here's a question I've been asking myself:

What can I personally do better when it comes to supporting the mental and emotional well-being of the people around me?

Am I listening to understand, or am I listening just long enough to give advice?

Am I checking on people only when I need something?

Do I make room for honest conversations, or do I expect everybody around me to always appear okay?

And when somebody tells me they're struggling, am I willing to walk alongside them, even when I don't have the perfect answer?

I think those questions matter.

Because meaningful change doesn't always begin with a program, a ministry, or a major initiative.

Sometimes it begins with how we treat the person sitting next to us.

And maybe that's where we all have an opportunity to grow.

Not because the church has failed.

But because loving people well is something we should always be willing to learn how to do better.

Seeking help doesn't mean you've stopped trusting God.

This is another part of the conversation I want us to be comfortable having.

Prayer matters.

Scripture matters.

Worship matters.

And I believe God can bring healing and restoration in ways we may not fully understand.

But I also believe we should be willing to receive appropriate professional help when we need it.

According to the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, 52.1% of U.S. adults with a mental illness received mental health treatment in 2024.

That means nearly half did not.

That figure isn't specific to Christians, and there are many reasons someone may not receive treatment.

But it reminds us that access to care remains an important issue.

I don't believe seeking therapy means you've stopped trusting God.

I don't believe talking with a mental health professional makes your prayers any less meaningful.

And I don't believe someone should have to choose between receiving care and being part of a faith community.

Sometimes support looks like prayer.

Sometimes it looks like someone checking on you.

Sometimes it looks like counseling, medical treatment, or a recovery program.

And sometimes it looks like all of those things working together.

Faith and mental health care don't have to be enemies.

We can trust God while also taking responsible steps to care for the minds, bodies, and lives we've been given.

At some point, I have to put my faith where my mouth is.

And this is the part that challenges me personally.

Because it's easy to talk about trusting God when you're encouraging somebody else.

It's easy to tell somebody that God will make a way when you're not the one wondering how the bills are going to get paid.

It's easy to tell somebody to keep going when you're not the one who's exhausted.

But what happens when it's my finances?

My future?

My plans?

My peace?

What happens when I'm the one trying to figure out how everything is going to work out?

Am I still willing to trust Him?

I've been asking myself that question lately.

And I've realized that putting my faith into practice doesn't mean pretending I don't have concerns.

Sometimes my prayer sounds like this:

"God, I'm trusting You, but I'm concerned."

"God, I believe You can handle this, but I don't know how it's going to work out."

"God, I know what Your Word says, but I'm struggling with what I'm seeing right now."

And I think we need to make room for prayers like that.

In Mark 9:24, a father asks Jesus to help him with his unbelief.

I love that moment because he doesn't pretend his faith is stronger than it is.

He brings his struggle directly to Jesus.

And sometimes that's exactly what we need to do.

Not pretend.

Not perform.

Not act like we're never afraid.

Just be honest.

Philippians 4:6–7 reminds us to bring our concerns to God through prayer.

And for me, that means learning how to stop carrying everything as though it's mine alone to figure out.

It means praying before I panic.

It means taking the next responsible step even when I don't know what comes after it.

And sometimes it means admitting I need help.

Your current season is not your entire story.

One thing I keep coming back to is the difference between being in a difficult place and being in a hopeless place.

Those aren't necessarily the same thing.

You can be struggling financially and still have a future.

You can be healing from trauma and still have purpose.

You can be working through addiction or unhealthy patterns and still deserve care, dignity, and the opportunity to recover.

You can have questions about your faith and still bring those questions to God.

And you can be in a season of transition without believing your life has stopped moving forward.

I think about 2 Corinthians 4:8–9, where Paul describes being troubled and pressured, yet not abandoned or destroyed.

That scripture doesn't deny the reality of hardship.

It reminds us that hardship doesn't have to be the end.

And that's what I want to remember when I listen to these songs.

When I listen to Worth, I'm reminded of the love Christ demonstrated through His sacrifice.

When I listen to Worth Fighting For, I'm reminded that there's still more to live for, more to learn, more to experience, and more ways to grow.

Not just the house.

Not just the car.

Not just the relationship, the career, or the accomplishments.

But my peace.

My healing.

My faith.

My ability to love and be loved.

My opportunity to serve somebody else.

My opportunity to become healthier emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.

And the life God has given me.

I don't want to spend so much time fighting for what I want that I forget to care for the life I've already been given.

Because that life matters, too.

Faith is still worth fighting for.

I won't tell anybody that every problem will disappear tomorrow.

I won't tell you that having faith means you'll never struggle.

And I won't tell you that prayer alone is a substitute for treatment when someone needs professional help.

But I will tell you what I'm reminding myself.

Your struggles do not erase your worth.

Your mistakes do not have to define your entire future.

What happened to you does not mean you deserved it.

And needing help does not make you less of a Christian.

Sometimes fighting for the life God has given us means getting up and trying again.

Sometimes it means walking away from something that's hurting us.

Sometimes it means making that counseling appointment, seeking treatment, having an honest conversation, setting a boundary, or admitting that we're not okay.

And sometimes it means simply praying:

"God, I still trust You. I'm just having a hard time right now."

I'm still learning that.

I'm still learning how to trust God with the things I can't control.

I'm still learning how to worship in seasons I don't understand.

And I'm still learning that my worth isn't measured by how perfectly I navigate life's challenges.

So as I continue listening to these two songs, I find myself worshiping with a different kind of gratitude.

Not just because of what God has done.

Not just because of what I believe He's going to do.

But because His love reminds me that my life has value even when my circumstances make it difficult for me to see it.

And if there's one thing I hope you take away from this conversation, it's this:

Don't let the season you're in convince you that the life you've been given isn't worth caring for.

There's still room for healing.

There's still room for growth.

There's still room for grace and mercy.

And there's still a reason to keep going.

This life is worth fighting for.

This faith is worth fighting for.

And even when I don't understand the season I'm in, I believe God is still working in it.

Let's keep the conversation going.

I want to leave us with a few questions, and these are questions I'm asking myself, too.

  • What are some ways you feel you could personally do better when it comes to caring for your own mental health and supporting the people around you?

  • Do you think our churches, small groups, friendships, and everyday circles create enough room for honest conversations about emotional well-being?

  • Have you ever experienced a season when you believed in God but struggled to see your own worth?

  • What does fighting for the life God has given you look like in your current season?

I don't think any of us have all the answers. But I do believe we can continue learning how to love, listen, support, and encourage one another.

And maybe that's where some of the most meaningful conversations begin.

Real Life. Real Faith. Real Conversations.

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