Steve Austin's Blog

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What is the Sermon on the Mount?

In short: it’s a massive collection of the teachings of Jesus.

But who cares? And what does it mean for us today?

This Summer, I asked 11 friends that very question, and I got 11 different answers (the Bible is cool like that). I recorded their responses, and I think the results are pretty powerful.

Here they are:

Love is the Center of Everything (feat. Ed Bacon)

Judge Not (feat. Teer Hardy)

Divorce is an option, but is it the best? (feat. Ryan Brown)

Blessed are the Peacemakers (feat. Jon Scott)

You Have the Grace You Need Today (feat. Paul Young)

The Big Problem with Your Arrogant Religion (feat. Arthur Harrison)

The Beatitudes, Queerness, & Scandal (feat. Liz Edman)

Those Who Hunger & Thirst for Righteousness (feat. Brad Polley)

Jesus was a Social Worker (feat. Dr. Holly Oxhandler)

Jesus & Retaliation (feat. Bec Ray)

Series Finale (feat. Ryan Dunn)

Listen to all the other episodes of the #AskSteveAustin Podcast at AskSteveAustin.com today!

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Have you ever been stressed out?

Me too. One day a couple of years ago, I was barely holding it together. I'd been stressed out for two days. Medical concerns, marriage struggles, and financial woes left me drowning underneath an ocean of shame and guilt.

I had tossed and turned the night before, checking the clock at 11:45, 12:15, and every half-hour that followed. To add insult to injury, after drinking coffee for fifteen years, my doctor said it was making my anxiety worse. At my last visit, my blood pressure was higher than it had ever been in my life. As a result, I had been off coffee for a month. I was anything but happy about it. The frustration and uncertainty piled up, and on a particularly overwhelming day at work, it all came toppling down.

I wanted to see my wife. I considered calling my Mom. I wanted to text a couple of different friends. But I was ashamed. When I am having a hard day, my inner-critic loves to tell me how crazy and weak I am. That I’m a burden, unworthy of love.

Stress never fights fair.

Have you ever been there?

Chances are, you have.

As of 2017, 18% of adults reported feeling stressed “often,” including nights and weekends. (Here’s a list of The 10 Most Stressed Out States in the U.S.)

If that's you, what are you going to do about it?

Stress is normal. Let me say that again: stress is normal.

You are normal!

Whew. Take a deep breath (no really, take a deep breath). You’re not alone.

For me, everything changed when I realized that stress is just a messenger (like all emotions). The key is to dig into the stress a bit and find out what’s going on, just beneath the surface.

Are you stressed out? I'd love to help.

Sign up today (click right here) for my FREE 6-part email course: 6 Proven Ways to Calm Down.

It's simple, practical, and the results could improve your physical & mental health, strengthen your relationships, and give you the ability to slow down and catch your breath.

Sign up today. IT'S FREE! Just click here.

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Steve Austin

was a pastor when he nearly died by suicide. A second chance, a grueling recovery, and years of honest conversation allowed Steve to find healing and purpose. It’s evident in his writing, speaking, podcasting, and coaching: he helps overwhelmed people get their lives back.

Steve is also the author of two Amazon bestsellers: From Pastor to a Psych Ward and Catching your Breath. He lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with his wife, Lindsey, and their two children.

Have you ever been done wrong? Have you ever wanted the person who did you wrong to suffer? Have you ever wanted justice? Have you ever disagreed with someone so strongly that your disagreement turned to hatred? Have you ever tried to get as far away from God as possible?

If so, keep reading.

“I’ve been thrown away,

   thrown out, out of your sight.

I’ll never again lay eyes

   on your Holy Temple.

Ocean gripped me by the throat.

   The ancient Abyss grabbed me and held tight.

My head was all tangled in seaweed

   at the bottom of the sea where the mountains take root.

I was as far down as a body can go,

   and the gates were slamming shut behind me forever...”

— Jonah 2, The Message
STRANGER IN A FOREIGN LAND

I've been traveling the past ten days. I spent the second half of my trip in Indiana. Apparently, if it's your first time in the Hoosier State, you have to try the tenderloin sandwich - a local tradition.

Last Saturday, I was having lunch with a bunch of locals. This was the third time I had been told to get the tenderloin sandwich. Three different restaurants, three different sets of friends, three separate days. And all of them said the same thing, “Dude - you have to try the tenderloin sandwich.”

The server overheard our discussion, snarled up his face, and looked at me like I had two heads when he found out I had never had a tenderloin sandwich.

One of my friends begrudgingly piped up in a sort of disgusted tone, “He’s from Alabama” (and everyone at the table rolled their eyes).

“Ah,” the server said, still looking at me with judgmental eyes. It all seemed to make sense now.

MEET JONAH

You know Jonah, the prophet of God, the dude who spent a few days in the belly of a massive fish?

But what if this story isn’t about a dude and a big fish?

Rob Bell basically says it’s more about God’s unconditional love having the power to so profoundly transform me, empowering me to love others more fully - yes, even those who have wounded me; even the people with whom I disagree entirely.

Better than that, the redeeming love (the messy grace) of God allows me to accept and embrace myself.

EVEN IF I LAY DOWN IN HELL

Let's recap the story: God tells Jonah to travel to Nineveh, a city known for its total disregard for the ways of God. Jonah is to convince the people to repent and turn back to God. Otherwise, they're going to be destroyed.

But Jonah is bitter and angry and wants the people of Nineveh to get what they deserve: total annihilation. So, he ignores the call of God and boards a boat to get as far away from Nineveh as possible.

A storm comes up. The sailors and fishermen start freaking out. They draw straws to try and figure out who is the cause of the chaos. And the lot falls on Jonah.

The interrogation begins. The others on the boat ask Jonah who he is, where he is from, what family he belongs to, what does he do for a living, and why he is on the ship.

HUH?

I read this story last week for the first time in a very long time, and I was struck by Jonah's bizarre response to the sailors' inquisition. In the midst of the ship rocking back and forth, plus the intense frustration of the others on the boat, Jonah gives them a response that seems entirely out of place, "I am a Hebrew."

Huh?

Who cares?! The boat is about to go under, and you’re telling me you’re a Jew?? Who cares?!

"You've never had a tenderloin sandwich?!"

"Oh, he's from Alabama."

"I'm a Hebrew."

Are you tracking yet?

Yea. I wasn't either.

Jonah’s response of, “I’m a Hebrew” doesn’t make sense to me until I Google “Jews and Jonah.”

During Jonah's time,  there was a commonly held belief that there were territorial gods or deities. There were also certain (more desolate) places, where there was not a local deity. The ocean was one of those "no man's land" areas where no local deity reigned, and people believed they could do whatever they wanted.

So it makes sense that even Jonah, when running from God, would naturally board a boat. No man’s land. He thinks he can do as he pleases.

Until the storm hits.

Everything is coming apart at the seams, and Jonah seems lost in thought. The way I read this story, Jonah wasn't even answering their questions directly. It's like the realization was hitting him at the same time.

"I'm a Hebrew," he thinks aloud.

In other words, my God has no boundaries.

I’m a Hebrew: my God isn’t limited by your territories.

Remember when Moses went to Pharoah, demanding the release of his people? He says, “The God of the Hebrews has sent us.”

In other words, the God who isn’t bound by your laws or prisons or punishment - the God that is above all your little territorial imps - that God demands you release His children immediately.

I’m a Hebrew.

MAN OVERBOARD!

The winds are beating the ship to a pulp. The waves are slamming against the wooden planks. Rain is pouring down, and thunder is shaking them at their core. Jonah tells the others to throw him overboard, into the sea. If they just throw him overboard, everything will calm down, and the sailors will be safe.

I wonder what Jonah really meant.

During the worst days of my life, in the two weeks leading up to my suicide attempt, I was begging someone to just throw me overboard. I felt like a burden to my family. I believed I had disappointed God. I thought no one would believe my story - or even care.

"Just throw me overboard!"

Jonah had to be pretty frustrated when the fishermen ignored his cries and started to row harder and faster, praying to their own local gods.

Because that didn’t fix anything.

Alas, they throw the Hebrew into the churning sea.

Can you imagine all the thoughts Jonah faces while in the belly of a fish?

“I’m not dead. I’m just sort of in this really smelly holding place. Why aren’t you killing me, God?! Just let me drown. I can’t see anything down here. This is my worst-case scenario.”

THE MOST HONEST PRAYER I'VE EVER PRAYED

Look back at Jonah's prayer from the belly of the whale. It's the desperate prayer of someone literally at the end of their rope.

Can you tell somebody what the end of the rope looks like? I’ve been there.

For me, it was being rolled down the hall from an ICU room, down to the elevator, to the belly of the hospital. I remember the sound of those giant metal doors latching shut behind me, as the orderly rolled me into the psych ward.

As the doors slammed shut, I prayed the most honest prayer I've ever prayed, "God? If you're there, please help me."

DROWNING

Whether you have a mental health diagnosis or not. We all know what it’s like to feel like we’re drowning.

Overwhelmed.

Exhausted.

Stressed to the max.

Wondering if God has finally given up on us.

At some point, most of us have probably run from what we know is our best self.  Or some difficult conversation. We've all made poor decisions and not lived from our heart-center. We've faced the consequences and the fallout, and we’ve probably regretted it.

I'M A HEBREW

“Where can I go from your Spirit?

   Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;

   if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

   if I settle on the far side of the sea,

even there your hand will guide me,

   your right hand will hold me fast.

If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me

   and the light become night around me,”

even the darkness will not be dark to you;

   the night will shine like the day,

   for darkness is as light to you.”

— Psalm 139

This isn't a story about a big fish. It's a story about mercy, grace, and forgiveness. Jonah couldn’t forgive those he viewed as “sinners” until he learned his own lesson about his need for mercy and grace.

This story is about Hope. It’s a story about redemption and restorative justice. It’s one about love - which is the most divine experience we can have.

Jonah must have thought he was really something special; better than everyone else. Jonah believed he had it all figured out. I've been there. I remember hating, or at least having no compassion, for those I viewed as a "sinner."

It took Jonah reaching rock bottom before he could ever see his own need for mercy and forgiveness. The whole experience was about finding compassion for "the other," and discovering that we are all "the other."

It was the same way for me, after being released from the psych ward. Sitting with others at the lowest points of their lives gave me more love, compassion, and understanding than I'd ever found in a lifetime of trying to do all the right things.

It’s been six years since the lowest point of my life, but in the past few weeks, I’ve deeply struggled with inner-hatred. The Kavanaugh hearing, the confession of Dr. Ford, and Kavanaugh’s eventual confirmation to the Supreme Court of the United States disappointed me, triggered memories of my own abuse, felt like it diminished my own painful experience (plus countless others), and sent me into a tailspin of anger and hatred.

I lashed out on social media. I was boiling on the inside. And I was perfectly fine with God bulldozing Washington and starting over.

But I'm a Hebrew. As such, it's my job to live my life in such a way that unboxes things like Divine Love and grace and hope. Compassion and mercy can't be rationed out, only to those I deem worthy.

I'm a Hebrew. And it's time I start recognizing the dignity of all humans, even when it isn’t easy. Initially, Jonah refused to preach to a group of people he hated. I’ve been there. And I was wrong.

There is no transgression so heinous and no wound so deep that Love cannot transform. And the only way the world will ever experience that kind of Love is if we allow it to flow through us into every interaction we have in-person & online.

We cannot live our lives full of hatred and expect anyone to believe we are children of God.

Whether it’s an entire city or just the stubborn heart of someone like Jonah, the Good news is this: Love is the antidote to fear. Love combats the illusion of separateness. Love is a reminder that everyone belongs, even when it seems like life is falling apart.

*Originally preached at Red Door Church (Bloomington, Indiana), October 7, 2018.

Pre-Order Catching Your Breath today!

Steve Austin was a pastor when he nearly died by suicide. A second chance, a grueling recovery, and years of honest conversation allowed Steve to find healing and purpose. It’s evident in his writing, speaking, podcasting, and coaching: he helps overwhelmed people get their lives back.

Steve is also the author of two Amazon bestsellers: From Pastor to a Psych Ward and Catching your Breath. He lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with his wife, Lindsey, and their two children.

“Catching Your Breath is a breathtaking and honest read that reminds us that no matter how dark things may get, there’s always sunshine around the corner — and sometimes you just need the reminder.”

— Zachary Houle

As we near the release of my new book, Catching Your Breath: The Sacred Journey from Chaos to Calm, I thought it would be fun to share a few of my favorite quotes with you. This book is so exciting, because it is the most clear I have ever been about who I am and what I believe about things like faith, mental health, and self-care.

Here are a few of my favorite pieces of this new book. (Click here to pre-order today.)

Foreword (by Ed Bacon)

The issue in life is not whether we have wounds. The point is whether we understand that our wounds can be a source of power for us and others. The issue is not whether or not you have injuries. But are you willing to allow others to touch your wounds, empowering them to lead others toward wholeness, too?

Introduction

If we want to heal the deepest parts of our souls, it does take time, just like with any physical wound. But I know from years of personal experience that it also takes medication, therapy, self-compassion, stillness, a safe community, and willingness to take actionable steps to get better.

Chapter 1: Drowning

Beneath all the different things we think we need permission for, I believe what we need is permission to be ourselves. Permission to belong, just as we are. Mostly, I think we’re all in desperate need of permission to be human.

Chapter 2: Good News for Spiritual Misfits

Everyday spirituality is an invitation to open rather than close, to bloom rather than wilt, to listen rather than speak, to learn rather than attempt to convert.

Chapter 3: Nekkid

When we choose to become vulnerable, something inside longs to be courageous, to tell the truth, and to speak the hard-won wisdom. It's the soul that begs us to tell a better story, one more in line with the truth of our being. We are no longer bound by what the past says about us and our best efforts to keep it hidden. We aren’t trapped by the shameful lies that work so hard to hold us back from the best life has to offer. We are so much more than the residue of a terrible moment.

Chapter 4: Fully Known, Fully Loved

If you believe your story doesn’t matter, you’re all alone on your tiny island of insignificance, and hold all those secrets inside until you die, you have kept your one great gift from the rest of us. No, the gift isn’t your secret. It’s allowing those who care about you to know you completely.

Chapter 5: When You Believe You are Bad

No matter how we were raised or if we cling to faith of any sort, genuine love doesn’t have prerequisites. Grace doesn’t have qualifying criteria. Compassion has no strings attached. At the end of the day, it is more important to love my neighbors than to expect them to pass a litmus test on morality or religious fervor.

Chapter 6: Criticalizin’

Peace believes that the promise of a better tomorrow outweighs the difficulty of this particular moment.

Chapter 7: Throw Everything Over

When you’re in crisis mode, don’t feel like you have to force yourself to find immediate peace with God or other people. Those things will come later. But you'll never ease your restlessness - or learn to sit with it - until you learn to create peace with yourself.

Chapter 8: Saucer & Blow It

When we prevent ourselves from experiencing the full spectrum of human emotion, it's like we're sawing off an arm or leg with a dull butter knife. It's hard, painful, and unnecessary work. In denying ourselves the right to feel angry, sad, or disappointed - anything but joyful - we're amputating pieces of our souls. This just causes more trauma that will eventually, stubbornly, rise to the surface.

Chapter 9: Quiet AF

One of the biggest mistakes people make on the journey from chaos to calm is trying to do everything at once. They want to change their diet, exercise, meditate, get a life coach, and start journaling on day one. And the best advice I can give you is to take a deep breath, take it one step at a time, and, like we talked about in the last chapter, slow down. Don’t try to get from point A to point Z today. Just take a deep breath and the first step.

Chapter 10: A Dog Named Dudley

Self-care has saved my life and transformed me time and again. From the silent retreat that helped heal the brokenness of my marriage to learning to create healthy boundaries with toxic friends and family members, many forms of self-care have been part of my journey into calm. Self-care is personal. That’s why it’s called self - it’s different for everyone. So what is it for you?

Chapter 11: Watching Porn with Nanny

Hope is the resting place for abandoned wives and failed ministers. Hope is the dance floor for shattered dreams, long-since deferred. Hope is a promise that better days are coming.

Pre-Order Now
From the back cover:

What if you could experience a new level of freedom, strength, healing, and energy?

Too many people are overwhelmed and holding onto deep suffering, unable to catch their breath in a world that tells them to fake it till they make it. As the pressure of fear, pain, anxiety, and anger build, sooner or later these individuals are going to explode—just like bestselling author and life coach Steve Austin did.

That’s no way to live.

With deep honesty, hilarious true stories, and refreshingly straight talk, Austin shares his personal journey from crippling anxiety and perfectionism to calm amid life’s inevitable chaos. He pulls no punches, revealing his darkest moments and the thoughts most people would be too afraid to admit.

Yet he offers hope. In these powerful pages, you’ll find simple ways to cultivate calm and practice self-care while living courageously and authentically.

Discover how to come up for air and breathe again.

Pre-Order Today

“...uncomfortably honest, remarkably compassionate, and beautifully rough around the edges. Thank you for your friendship, Steve. And thank you for this book. ”

— Tullian Tchividjian, author of One-Way Love, and Jesus + Nothing = Everything

When I woke up in an ICU room and decided I would keep living, one of the most significant changes was getting rid of the thoughts, theologies, and unrealistic expectations that were killing me. Moving forward meant letting go and choosing to accept myself, just as I am. Accepting myself allowed Perfect Love to do its work of casting out the fear that was entrenched in my heart, mind, and soul.

After receiving a scathing email this weekend, praising me for my suicide prevention work, and condemning me for my political views, I thought it was time to get perfectly clear about who I am and what I believe.

I am many things. I am not only a Christian or a mental health ally. I am a whole person, full of diverse views on everything from life to faith to politics. I need something more profound and more genuine than Sunday-morning Christianity. This is the new leg of my spiritual journey.

I don’t have it all figured out. And it’s okay that you don’t, either. If you disagree and you’re still clinging to the black and white thinking of dualism, that’s okay. I hope you feel safe here, too. This is a place where people are free to disagree, because we see the dignity in each person. As long as you are kind and respectful, always choosing to value the person over the issue, I won’t try to convert you, and I hope to God you won’t try to change me.

This is, in essence, a statement of my ever-evolving faith:

I am desperate for honesty.

I'm hungry for conversation and a celebration of diversity.

I'm stripping away fear and perfectionism to connect with my true self. This means I can show up with my success, failure, vulnerability, questions, and the core tenets of my ever-evolving faith.

I stand with underdogs (whether they are children, women, refugees, LGBTQ, black, hispanic, elderly, immigrant, refugee, differently-abled, or otherwise) and support equality for everyone.

I promise to listen to victims of abuse.

I will use my white privilege to make space at the table for everyone, to seek truth and redemptive justice for all who need it.

I refuse to dehumanize anyone, even those with whom I vehemently disagree.

I believe all people were created in the image of a God who loves us without condition.

Divine Love is at the core of our being, and this kind of love is a free gift, not a loan to be repaid with good behavior. I have been freed from the bonds of toxic religion, and I will do my part to help everyone understand that we have been wounded, but we are not broken.

I believe in nonviolence.

I am committed to following the loving example of Jesus and to respecting those on a different spiritual journey than me.

I refuse to follow the status quo of politics, culture, or religion when it means trampling those without a voice or a vote. I will not compromise my convictions to make someone else comfortable.

I believe Love wins.

I believe Fear is the enemy.

I believe all people deserve love and justice. If people think their lives don’t matter, it damages the soul and sometimes kills the body. People don’t want to live in a world (read: a family or a church) where they aren’t known, accepted, and loved. Perpetuating hate and fear through destructive theology or political ideology is damaging the collective soul of this worldwide community of humans.

No matter how we were raised or if we cling to a faith of any sort, genuine love doesn’t have prerequisites. Grace doesn’t have qualifying criteria. Compassion has no strings attached. At the end of the day, it is more important to love my neighbors than to expect them to pass a litmus test on morality or religious fervor.

I believe the only way to move forward is together.

I believe we must share our stories boldly. This is the way we overcome injustice, shame, and stigma. Talking about our traumas, fears, and disappointment takes back the power from our deepest wounds. Freedom comes when we begin to own our stories. Period.

It would be pretty hard to box me in because I’ve spent the past six years of my life saying no to labels and crushing every box I find. But if you’re wondering who I am, here are the high points: I am a Jesus-centric, liberal-leaning, mental-health-advocating, LGBTQ-loving, bourbon-drinking, cigar-smoking, cussing-like-a-sailor lover of God. I cling to Divine Mystery in myself and others, believing the very best of everyone I meet, regardless of our differences.  

No matter who is in office, where I live, what church (if any) I attend, what job I hold, or how many books I sell...these are the things I hold most dear.

If you don’t agree with my views, it’s okay. Really, it is.

If you’re willing to disagree with kindness and respect, we can sit down over a cup of coffee (or a glass of whiskey) and talk about it. Because your humanity will always matter more to me than your faith, politics, accolades, or failures.

So can we please play nice? The truth is, NONE of us have any of this figured out. You don’t have all the answers. And neither do I.

We’re all just doing our best. So, let’s put down our guns and hatred and fear of “the other,” and learn to look one another in the eye when we talk. (Hint: there is no "other." We are all made in the image of the Divine.) Let’s talk about issues rather than people. Let’s be decent, respectful human beings.

It’s time to loosen the death grip on our precious moral stances and open our hands and hearts to those around us who are longing for love and acceptance. Now, more than ever, we should love the person in front of us. We can’t always depend on the church or the government to do what they should. Grace is beckoning each of us to step out, speak up, and make room for everyone, regardless of what the institutions are doing.

I wish we could find grace to be unique, to embrace the story of us all, the great big circle that binds us together. We need the weirdness, the history, the art, the passion, the music, the queerness, and the glitter. We need the richness, darkness like the soil, the dancing, the rhythm, the soul, and the persistence.

Dr. Howard Thurman said, “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

We need you. Don’t back down in your resistance to the lies. You can love and be loved in return, exactly as you are. We need you at the table. There is plenty of room for you.

I believe Love wins.

So I choose kindness.

Are you with me?

Grace and gratitude,

Steve

Resources:

I stopped praying months ago. Here’s what happened.

The hardest question I’ve ever asked.

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Coaching for Spiritual Misfits




199.99 299.99

Reconstruct while you deconstruct.

(Yes, it’s possible)

This 4-session coaching package is designed for coaching every other week.

Bonus: includes the e-book, Catching Your Breath.

Flexible payment plans available!

Got questions? Email  steve@iamsteveaustin.com

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Steve Austin was a pastor when he nearly died by suicide. A second chance, a grueling recovery, and years of honest conversation allowed Steve to find healing and purpose. It’s evident in his writing, speaking, podcasting, and coaching: he helps overwhelmed people get their lives back.

Steve is also the author of two Amazon bestsellers: From Pastor to a Psych Ward and Catching your Breath. He lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with his wife, Lindsey, and their two children.

“When we choose to become vulnerable, something inside longs to be courageous, to tell the truth, and to speak the hard-won wisdom. It’s the soul that begs us to tell a better story, one more in line with the truth of our being. We are no longer bound by what the past says about us and our best efforts to keep it hidden. We aren’t trapped by the shameful lies that work so hard to hold us back from the best life has to offer. We are so much more than the residue of a terrible moment.

In the richness of our relationships, we discover a full life. Connection happens on the sacred journey toward wholeness. It shows up bit by bit as we build deeper trust with people we cherish. Regularly practicing vulnerability with your inner circle is vital. Maybe it’s a weekly brunch with your best friend, confession with your priest, or a video chat with your sister who lives out of state. It doesn’t matter how it looks: getting nekkid keeps us open and helps our hearts stay soft and warm. The coldness of everyday life and the demands of work and family can harden us quickly; regular doses of genuine connection is the perfect medicine for weary souls.”

— from "Catching Your Breath"

It’s hard to believe my new book, Catching Your Breath, releases in less than a month!

Even bigger news? You can win a signed copy of the paperback before you can buy it!

Every Thursday until LAUNCH DAY, I’m giving away 1 signed copy of Catching Your Breath: The Sacred Journey from Chaos to Calm.

THE BEST NEWS OF ALL? There are 7 ways to win!

Enter for Your Chance to Win!

“When my heart is overwhelmed, when anxiety paralyzes my mind, when a thousand tiny “maybes” and “should-haves” fill my thoughts, be my peace. Come to me like calm and hold me while I quake.”

— from "Catching Your Breath"

My children are fortunate to have a grandmother who is a fantastic swim instructor. Ben and Cara have been swimming since they were in diapers. At seven and four, respectively, they’re like little fish these days. But sometimes little fish become overzealous.

This mainly happens with Ben, but when one of my kids gets a little too sure of themselves, I have to step in and remind them that it’s okay to slow down. In the big picture, swimming is still a relatively new task, and sometimes my children have to swim to the ladder or hold onto the edge of the pool until they catch their breath.

Not Dying

I know Jesus faced the darkness in Gethsemane and chose to face it head-on. But I'm not Jesus. I wasn't trying to stay. I wasn't a hero. I was running away.

When I woke up in an ICU hospital room six years ago, I hadn't died. I was still here. Mad as hell. Confused. Frustrated. Humiliated. Scared shitless. Shame had me paralyzed. Fear was swirling all around me. I had been catastrophizing all the worst-case scenarios, and I didn't think I could possibly live through them.

When I woke up in that hospital room, it wasn't a hero lying there. I just didn't die.

And it wasn't for lack of trying. I had researched, and I was ready (read: desperate) to die. For years, I hadn't been slowing down to breathe. I was pushing forward, not realizing I had permission to stop and hold onto the ladder for a while. The word "rest" wasn't in my vocabulary.

I threw my black leather belt over the metal rod in the hotel room and thought it would be lights out pretty quickly. One article I read said I'd be unconscious within about 15 seconds. I know that's a pretty graphic detail, and I as much as I want to apologize, I want to be extremely clear that my waking up on September 21st wasn't a choice. I didn't choose to live until much later.

When the metal bar came crashing down, I had to resort to Plan B. This meant spending the time to cut and crush tens of thousands of milligrams of prescription and over-the-counter drugs. To try and end my pain, I stirred that deadly powder into my coffee, hoping it would hit my system as quickly as possible.

I didn't choose to live on September 21st, I just didn't die.

Choosing to Live

I'm not sure how much time passed between "not dying" and "choosing to live," but it wasn't overnight. Shame had a stranglehold on my mind, and even after the doctor released me from the psych ward, I was still living in my own hellish prison. Shame was the warden, Fear and Guilt were the prison guards, and my cell mate's name was Depression.

Choosing to live came after months of individual therapy, plus marriage counseling. It was only after entirely starting over and learning to tell the truth for the first time in my life that I was able to choose to live. The choice to live included taking naps, eating right, setting boundaries, refusing to put work before my health and my closest relationships. Living, rather than not dying, meant I had to reconsider everything I previously believed about a God of vengeance and fear. To fully live, I had to scrape away all the death and decay and learn to see myself as God's beloved.

There's a big difference between not dying and choosing to live.

Slow Down

At some point, we've all been so busy holding our breath, trying to “just keep swimming.” Like my kids in the swimming pool, it's normal to feel so excited to be breathing on your own for the first time. But it's incredibly easy to slip back into old patterns and forget to do the one thing you were just so desperate to do: breathe. Once you choose to start living, you have to remember to take it easy. Living ain’t always easy.

When I was 29 years old, I became acutely aware of what it felt like to hold my breath so long that the pain and shame felt like drowning. After such a traumatic experience, choosing to live initially started with one breath at a time, then the choice became hourly, then daily.

Choosing to live is a fight at first. Even now, six years after the worst day of my life, there are days when I have to stand in the bathroom, face set firm, staring in the mirror, giving myself permission to be human. Sometimes I still have to remind myself to untie the cape from my neck or come down off the cross and just be.

Because my nature is to perform and continuously hustle for my worthiness, I need constant reminders to slow down and take a deep breath.

You too? It’s tough to stop. But, friend, do whatever it takes to snap back to this reality: you are human. You are only one person - only capable of doing so much before you completely forget about the fragile beauty of your being. You have permission to hold onto the ladder and choose to live today.

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Steve Austin was a pastor when he nearly died by suicide. A second chance, a grueling recovery, and years of honest conversation allowed Steve to find healing and purpose. It’s evident in his writing, speaking, podcasting, and coaching: he helps overwhelmed people get their lives back.

Steve is also the author of two Amazon bestsellers: From Pastor to a Psych Ward and Catching your Breath. He lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with his wife, Lindsey, and their two children.

Pre-Order "Catching Your Breath"

They say that hell smells like burning sulfur. To me, it smelled like the Extended Stay hotel in Huntsville, Alabama.

I was working on an out-out-town interpreting assignment for a couple of weeks. I had gone home for the weekend, and when I pulled out of the driveway that Sunday night to head back to work, I knew I'd never see my wife and little boy again.

Six years ago today, I knew I'd be dead by Friday. It was a surreal week. I guess planning to die is like that: nearly every conversation that week felt like an out-of-body experience. It was as if my body was working, independent of my traumatized mind.

I worked each day. And then I would return to the hotel where I was staying, to be tormented by my own thoughts and mental illness. It was the darkest week of my life. I imagine feeling something like Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, being pressed like an olive into oil.

I had made some stupid mistakes. Hurt some people. Lost a job. And my personal failures, combined with untreated trauma and shame and fear of never being enough, never being believed, and no one caring - sent me into a tailspin. I was in a fog of depression, spun up wildly by anxiety, and shame was corroding my guts from the inside.

I believed my only way out was suicide.

This was supposed to be the first day of the last week of my life. And yet, I'm not dead. I'm still here. For some reason, God wasn't finished with me. Messy Grace wouldn't let me go.

I am Not Alone (Neither are You)

One thing I’ve learned over the past six years of recovering from the worst day of my life is this: I am not alone. Countless people are overwhelmed, suffering the shameful lashings of their past, holding onto gut-wrenching memories, unable to catch their breath in a world that tells them just to keep pushing. If the pressure of fear, pain, anxiety, and anger simmer and grow, sooner or later they’re going to explode.

The latest CDC statistics on suicide are staggering. In my home state of Alabama, from 1999-2016, the suicide rate increased by 21.9%. In 2016 alone, 142,000 people died of “diseases of despair” (which include alcohol and drug abuse, plus suicide). According to the CDC, “rates increased in nearly all states,” ranging “from just under 6 percent in Delaware to over 57 percent in North Dakota. Twenty-five states had suicide rate increases of more than 30 percent.”

We have lost bright lights to suicide. People like Robin Williams, Anthony Bourdain, Kate Spade, Chester Bennington, Amy Bleuel, and Pastor Andrew Stoecklein have all succumbed to this kind of unimaginable suffering. And please don’t forget the recent death of nine-year-old, Jamel Myles.

Despair is no respecter of persons. Mental illness isn’t intimidated by your pedigree, faith, or future plans. The treachery of hopelessness, the stigma of depression, and the sharp pain that lies to us, convincing us that suicide is the only answer; these things don’t just rob us of celebrities and heroes. Suicide killed my aunt when I was fourteen and murdered a friend of mine when we were only children, leaving his twelve-year-old body hanging lifeless in his bedroom closet.

When we got the news about my aunt, I’ll never forget the way my Mom screamed, “My sister!” as she dropped the grey receiver and it swung out and slammed back against the kitchen wall. In the immediate aftermath of her suicide, the days crawled by, but her funeral sticks out clearly in my memory. The hushed words of church people are what I can’t seem to shake. The ones who believed suicide was no different than murder, “in the eyes of God.”

It would be another fifteen years before I contemplated my own death, but the under-the-breath comments of church people stuck with me like glue. I was convinced that if I had gone to the church with my pain, I would have been called “demon possessed,” or told I lacked faith. The churches I grew up in liked easy fixes. They don't typically do well with messes that require more than a simple prayer of faith. If it can't be cleaned up in one "altar call," no thanks.

After I woke up in an ICU hospital room, my wife helped me realize that Jesus can save your soul, but counseling could save your life. These days, Lindsey continues to call out my toxic theology and harmful self-image. In sickness and in health, ya know?

Living with Anxiety

These days, I feel the healthiest I’ve ever been. But no matter what treatment plans I’ve followed, anxiety remains my constant companion, like it or not. Living with anxiety means secretly rejoicing when other people have their own problems to talk about, so you don’t have to share your own. You hide, silently isolated, pretending to care about the struggles of the whole world, as long as you can remain anonymous in your own suffering. It means you sometimes smile at a friend, wishing they knew you’re dying on the inside, and equally thankful they’re unaware.

Anxiety doesn’t only hit on the side of the road. Sometimes it strikes during happy hour with your friends, or at the exact moment your co-workers are laughing at an apparently hilarious joke. Anxiety is crying in your car after dropping off the kids at school or in your shower, so no one hears your sobs.

For someone living with anxiety, it is a daily battle just to change out of your pajamas, stand at the front door, peer out the window and wait for just the right moment when no one else is in sight, so you can pick up the package from UPS and not have to interact with another human being. Sometimes it means taking your kid to school, so you don’t have to make small talk with other adults at the bus stop.

Living with anxiety means living with the constant fear that you’ll feel this way for the rest of your life. You look in the mirror and, as much as you want others to see you as a person, all you can see is your own misery. Your diminished self-worth is based on the fact that you not only feel crazy, but believe you are insane.

Living with anxiety is stressful. People who know your diagnosis ask how you’re doing and you nearly have a panic attack because you don’t know how to adequately explain something you don’t even understand yourself. It’s exhausting fighting with your own head. Living with anxiety is one of the most courageous things a person can do. Your mind writes a story that would make any “normal” person weep, but you live with it every moment of every day because you know the only other alternative is a far less-happy ending.

I know, because I've been there. I've been consumed with shame and bogged down by depression. I've been spun-up by anxiety and thrown into the wall by PTSD. I know what it's like to rest the Bible in my lap in a hotel room while writing "goodbye letters" to all my closest people.

When loneliness mixes with mental illness, shame, and a generalized sense of hopelessness, it's a cocktail that can destroy everything. Most importantly, it can ruin you. I know what it's like to think it would be better to die than to face tomorrow. I've walked through that living hell.

And I've faced tomorrow. And tomorrow isn't always more comfortable. The sun doesn't always come out right away. Things don't always miraculously change and improve overnight. But with the right resources, professional support, and self-care, the sun will come out eventually, or you’ll learn to dance in the rain. Things do get better, bit by bit.

When the Church Gets it Wrong

I sang my first solo in the Christmas play at church when I was only five. I served as a youth leader in my local church all through high school. In my twenties, I attended two years of ministry school. And yet, at the age of twenty-nine, when I tried to die, I didn’t ask for help from the church where I worked. I had seen how the church treats people who just can’t seem to get it together. I didn’t want any more of their pious glances, toxic theology, or frustrated prayers.

This is the reason I am open about my story and why I encourage others too. Sharing my story always carries with it a bit of necessary weight, but I refuse to remain silent any longer, as people fall victim to the lie that there is no hope or help. When we own our stories, we take back the power of shame and stigma. Each time we expose darkness to the light, everyone wins.

The world is full of overwhelmed people who are just trying to fake it till we make it. The church is, too. I wore the mask of performance and perfection for many years. But honesty and vulnerability have brought a new kind of strength, healing, and energy to my life. I don’t ever want to go back. Maybe we can fake it till we make it, but it’s a rotten way to live. And really, is it even living?

When the church or culture at large tells you to keep pushing, ignore your feelings, discount your needs, demonize your weaknesses, avoid your doubts, and just choose joy, this is your invitation to come up for air and breathe again. You don’t have to walk through a living hell all alone.

The Year of Completeness

I am walking into the seventh year of recovery from a suicide attempt. In my Christian tradition, seven is a very sacred number. Creation is said to have been completed in seven days. The Abrahamic blessing is a seven-fold blessing. Life happens in seven-year cycles. There are seven parables of Matthew and seven mysteries. Seven bones in your face. Seven is the number of completeness and celebration.

So as we enter this year of completeness, we won't back down.

We won't look away.

We refuse to ignore suffering.

We will love our neighbors - especially the messy ones.

Most of all, we will love ourselves.

We are not giving up.

If you’re reading this and you love Jesus with all your heart, but life just plain sucks, I’m sorry. Please know you’re not alone. It will get better. I promise. Please don't give up. Don’t leave. This will get better. I don't know how or when, but I have lived through enough to know that hard days don’t last forever. I know that hard days can seem unthinkable at times, but in my experience, they come and go, just like the tides.

So hold on. And let go of all the things that are weighing you down. If it feels like your ship is sinking, throw all the excess cargo overboard and hold on. Hold onto these words. Hold onto hope. Hold onto memories of better days. They will come again.

Bio: Steve Austin was a pastor when he nearly died by suicide. A second chance, a grueling recovery, and years of honest conversation allowed Steve to find healing and purpose. It’s evident in his writing, speaking, podcasting, and coaching: he helps overwhelmed people get their lives back.

Steve is also the author of two Amazon bestsellers: From Pastor to a Psych Ward and Catching your Breath. He lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with his wife, Lindsey, and their two children. Visit iamsteveaustin.com today to download a free copy of From Pastor to a Psych Ward.

Alabama is known for tornadoes. Without fail, after a storm, the news crews will interview the toothless guy with tobacco in his lip, wearing a wife beater. And what does he always say?

“IT SOUNDED LIKE A FREIGHT TRAIN!”

It’s funny to watch the rednecks on the news, but they’re not wrong.

As the storm is passing over you, the rumbling destruction can sound a lot like a nearby train. But when I was just a little boy, during the worst of tornado season, just before the winds tore down three giant oak trees in our yard, as my mom and dad and I hunkered down underneath my parents mattress one night, I was struck by how quiet it seemed, just before the storm hit.

EVERYONE WANTS A HAPPY ENDING

I wrote a book about the day I woke up in an ICU hospital room, after nearly dying by suicide. September 21st: I talk about it all the time. The liver issues, being numb from the waist down. I speak about it. I tell my story on blogs and podcasts. The day I woke up - I share that story often.

People love the mystical experience of God whispering, "I'm not finished with you yet."

But we rarely talk about the day I decided to die; the day I said I can’t do this anymore. I can’t fake it. I can’t drag my family through what I thought was about to come. I can’t go on.

We don’t talk about September 20th often enough.

We need to talk about the day you reach rock bottom and believe there is no hope. We need to keep talking about the day that convinces you this will never get better, and it will only get worse. We cannot brush past the song of shame, "Nobody cares. Nobody loves you. Nobody will believe you. Nobody believes in you."

On the day you decide to die, it doesn't matter how long you've been married or how many kids you have. Nobody cares about their career path or pedigree on the day they give up. Scripture memory, accolades, and community involvement aren't at the front of your mind on your darkest day ever.

None of that matters anymore.

September 20, 2012: I’d been married five years. My little boy would be turning a year old on September 22nd. I grew up in the church. I had worked in the church for five years at this point. I was a good person. A great guy. Beloved.

And yet, I believed my only answer was suicide.

CALM BEFORE THE STORM

Much like the quiet few moments before the tornado, there is a false sense of calm that happens at the point when you decide to die. Up until this point, you've been overwhelmed by noise. The white noise of anxiety has been screaming in your ears. The black dog of depression's been barking in your ears and nipping at your heels. But when you become determined to die, the demons shut up. They get hushed because their work is done.

It gets really quiet.

MY FAVORITE DISCIPLE

For years, I've wondered if it was quiet for Judas: my favorite of the Disciples of Jesus.

He threw the money back at the religious leaders' feet and left in a shame-fueled panic. In that space between tossing the coins at their feet and going to find a rope, a tree, and hanging himself - I wonder how quiet it was? He had been tormented. He knew no one would believe him or care. He was convinced this would only get worse. This would never get better.

I wonder how quiet it was in the twilight hours between living and dying.

When I imagine Judas, I picture him as wounded man - maybe even mentally ill. A hurt, an offense, divorce, jealousy, a drinking problem, something unexpected that causes us to question everything we’ve ever known. We have a weak moment, and the emotions that have been simmering all this time suddenly begin to boil.

This picture of Judas is one that mirrors our lives when we begin to focus more on our failures than the power of second chances. I’ve heard well-meaning people say suicide is “the coward’s way out,” but they have obviously never experienced the depths of tragedy and despair. For someone to die by suicide, I believe they’re already living in Hell. From that place, condemnation to eternal judgment is nothing new. They’re already there.

The biblical account of Judas is the most moving of all the disciples for me because it highlights that he was a very flawed man. So am I. Judas genuinely loved and followed Jesus, yet he royally screwed up and we see in Scripture just how deeply he regretted his betrayal. All of this feels eerily familiar to me.

You can fight me, but I don’t think Judas is burning in Hell. I think his own personal hell was in the moments before and after he kissed Jesus on the cheek and threw those thirty tarnished pieces of silver back at the feet of the Pharisees. Judas acknowledged his own guilt and begged for things to be different. I think as the thirty pieces of silver clinked across the limestone floor of the synagogue that dark night, Judas made his peace with God, but felt he could never face his own shame in public ever again.

I have walked a mile in those same shoes.

It was quiet for me. It was dark and quiet in that hotel room with my Granddaddy’s Bible, writing letters to the people I loved - the people I was betraying.

It was quiet on September 20th. The day I gave up. The day I lost hope.

FORGIVING ME

Every year on this day, I journey back to all the places that led to the darkest day of my life.

Last year, I meditated and journeyed back to the little boy in the side yard at my parent's home. It was right after I had been abused. I was tiny, shocked, and shakily scared. That’s where it starts for me.

The worst day of my life doesn’t start with losing my job at 28. My experience with trauma and hopelessness doesn't begin with my first panic attack in high school. This journey didn’t even start by getting hooked on porn at 12. For me, it starts when I was raped at the age of four.

In my meditation, I traveled back there and asked that little boy for forgiveness. I apologized for giving up on him. For believing he was hopeless. I held him close and told him how much I loved him. How sorry I was. I embraced that innocent little boy and said to him that he made it. That he’s okay. I had to tell him that life gets better.

Not overnight. But, life does get better.

So if you're reading this and you think things may never get better, in my experience, that's not true. In fairness, I don’t know when or how it will get better - I know it’s likely not by the snapping of Jesus’ cosmic fingers - but it will get better.

This day every year, I have to forgive myself for nearly abandoning my family. I didn’t think I had any other option. I thought I was doing them a favor.

Forgiveness isn’t a one time process. When it is something deeply traumatic, cutting to the core of your identity, you remember.

DO THIS IN REMEMBRANCE OF ME

I remember. And I need to remember. I need to be reminded that there was a day in my life six years ago when I gave up. When I lost hope.

Things were scary as hell for me. But through a long, patient, arduous process of getting really honest - digging through the most difficult, awful, nasty, uncomfortable, terrible things - through prayer, counseling, medication, and meditation - things have gotten better.

Much, much better.

But I had to forgive myself. And I forgive myself every year on this day.

I remember.

I remember the little boy who was broken in the side yard.

I remember the images no child should have burned into his brain.

I remember wanting to die.

I remember begging God to take me.

I remember praying for cancer.

I remember the bridges and overpasses.

I remember the pain and shame and fear.

I remember, but I don't live there.

I can't stay there.

Those things happened.

I call them by name and acknowledge them.

But I can’t set up camp and stay there.

And I forgive.

The wrong choices I made.

The pain others caused.

And I choose.

I choose to move forward.

I choose to accept messy grace.

I refuse to allow the worst day of my life to define the rest of my life.

Judas lost all hope. So did I. He went outside the city, threw a rope over a big tree branch, wrapped a noose around his neck, and died by suicide. My first attempt was a leather belt, wrapped around a flimsy shower rod in a hotel bathroom. I wonder if the last sounds Judas heard, before his neck snapped and he died, was his friend and teacher, dying on another tree. Dying to give us hope. The One dying for Judas and for me.

I have been changed forever by my trauma, but I won't allow those things to rule me for the rest of my life. I will be more kind, gracious, and compassionate. I won't live with shame. I choose not to live with the uncontrollable guilt. I still believe in the God who makes all things new.

Six years after the day I decided to die, I can tell you that life is worth living, but you have to forgive others and yourself. You have to choose to see God in your worst moment and in the face of your worst enemy. There is enough grace in each day to bind your wounds, heal your heart, and lift you to a new place. You don't have to forget, but you must forgive.

Download your free copy of From Pastor to a Psych Ward here.

And pre-order Catching Your Breath here.

Steve Austin was a pastor when he nearly died by suicide. A second chance, a grueling recovery, and years of honest conversation allowed Steve to find healing and purpose. It’s evident in his writing, speaking, podcasting, and coaching: he helps overwhelmed people get their lives back.

Steve is also the author of two Amazon bestsellers: From Pastor to a Psych Ward and Catching your Breath. He lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with his wife, Lindsey, and their two children.