This personal narrative recounts one missionary woman’s deeply personal journey through calling, disillusionment, and eventual healing while serving in northern Thailand. With raw honesty, the author reflects on the pressures of ministry, motherhood, and the hidden toll of isolation and internalized expectations—especially for women in missions. Through spiritual crisis and the surprising grace of spiritual direction, she discovers the gentle, liberating presence of Christ. Her story invites others—especially women in ministry—to lay down their heavy burdens and find rest in the easy yoke of Jesus.
I can see the determination in her eyes. Her shoulders are back and her brow furrowed, focused on the task ahead. She is launching out to the mission field–hers being beautiful and wide-open northern Thailand. She’s heard the call, and now it’s time to get the job done.
She’s already answered all the questions: Is she scared? What will she miss from home? Is she okay moving her kids so far away from family? “It’s going to be fine. Moving to Thailand is like going home.” She grew up as a missionary kid in Bangkok for nine years of her childhood. She knows the language. She knows the culture. This is where she chased fish in the flood waters in her yard during the rainy season. This is where she flew down the busy Bangkok streets in a tuk tuk with her sister to buy treats at their favorite snack store. This is where she curled up with her parents in the evenings to watch recordings of The Andy Griffith Show. She can still hear her mother’s voice singing old, familiar hymns in Thai during church on Sundays. Thai preschool. Missionary homeschool. International school. Hot and sticky church camps and revivals. Christmases spent at the quaint missionary retreat center on the beach each year.
Thailand has always been one of her two homes, so this is going to feel like rediscovering a childhood blanket. This move isn’t daunting. It’s comforting.
This is what she tells herself, this confident, 31-year old wife and mother of two young daughters under the age of four, as she stands at the airport with her eight brimming trunks and her mission team, ready to launch out into the field. Ready to answer the call. Ready to go back home.
…
It was fifteen years ago today when I got on that plane for northern Thailand with my husband, daughters, and five teammates. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long. It is even harder to believe that it has been ten years since we packed up those eight trunks, along with a few more suitcases of accumulated goods (not to mention a son who was born in Thailand), to leave the mission field and return “home.”
It is hardest to believe it went the way it did. We set out with such determination. My excitement and resolve were especially heightened because I was going out as a female missionary. I was going to make a real impact. I was going to prove something. Our team consisted of three couples and one single woman. With four women on the team, we decided from the start that our team would follow an egalitarian model. The seven of us shared the responsibilities of prayer, training, and setting direction for our ministry. As my husband and I sought sponsoring churches, we raised support for Derran and Ann. Throughout our year-long team training and when we initially arrived in the field, the women on our team were active participants. Our levels of daily involvement varied slightly, but we all engaged in discernment and strategic planning. We never made a decision without all seven voices.
However, it did not take long before I sensed a shift in myself. I noticed that I was scared to explore and hesitant to try new things. I realized that I was not the entrepreneurial self-starter I thought I was. And my typically extroverted self began to look for ways to avoid interactions. I wanted to stay home with my kids. Or, better yet, stay home by myself. The first tendril of isolation had begun to wrap itself around my heart.
I am not sure what caused this unexpected shift. But I began to ask myself some surprising questions: Do I actually want to be the full-time, active missionary I had envisioned? Is engaging in the day-to-day work of a missionary what I really desire? Should I be involved in each decision and ministry event? Part of me yearned to be “out there” doing the work, especially because I wanted to show that women are integral to the ministry. After all, I mean, I went to Thailand to be a missionary. I intended to be active in the ministry, the church, and the community. I did not want to play some supportive role. Yet, here I was, starting to retreat.
The new context was already taking its toll. The language that I knew so well now had a dialect I did not recognize. The big city experiences of Chiang Mai and Bangkok, with all the fun sites and activities, were a far cry from our new hometown of 30,000. I began to feel the weight of moving with two toddlers and getting them settled in this foreign place. Frankly, I was unprepared for the struggles that came with parenting without a larger support network.
We were alone, and it was not before the strain mounted. We decided to enroll our kids into Thai preschool. That is what good missionaries do, right? Be incarnational. So, I dropped my 3-year old off at pre-k a week after we got there. She could not speak a lick of Thai. She, along with one of our teammates’ sons, was the only foreigner in the school. Her curly, blonde hair and blue eyes ensured her differentness. The weight of walking away from her that day–and the day after that and the day after that–burdened me. But I pushed through. This is what I came for. The challenges only made me more determined to be the cool, calm, and collected missionary mom. All the while, my self-imposed pressure began to weigh me down.
Our team quickly settled into a rhythm of meeting in our homes for worship and fellowship on Sundays. We all had roles in our gatherings: prayer, leading lessons, preparing meals, and teaching the children. It was a true team effort, and in so many ways was what I wanted out of church. Our children loved each other like cousins. Our team laughed together…a lot. We shared many meals of amazing Thai food. We had never lived in such an intimate community. We were each other’s babysitters, friends, co-workers, and church community. We came up with ways to make Christmases feel special though we were far away from family. We let the kids paint green pumpkins bright orange for Halloween in an attempt to have an American experience in their new Thai home. We took turns keeping each other’s kids so couples could get away. Our family lived next door to the single woman on our team, and she became an aunt to our children and a close friend to us. It was such a sweet time as I look back. We were living the adventure. But this was also about the time I stopped checking social media. It became difficult for me to see friends and family posting photos of the first day of school, holidays with family, and vacations.
Lonely. I started feeling lonely and disconnected from friends in the U.S. I was frustrated that it seemed so much harder on the mission field. I know now that social media did not reflect reality, but I was jealous of how easy it looked. The comparison game reared its ugly head in our relationships with our teammates. I felt insecure that we did not do as much outdoor stuff as one of the other families. I did not enjoy cooking as much, and certainly did not do it as well, as another family. My dear friend, one of the other moms on our team, would stay at the preschool when we dropped off our kids until her son felt comfortable. I was more of a drop-and-go mom. I would drive home full of jealousy and insecurity as a mother. What if my child felt abandoned by me as she watched her friend’s mom stay longer?
Having grown up in Thailand myself, I was acutely aware of the cultural expectations for children. I was strict with my kids about greeting appropriately and showing deference to elders. I made sure they smiled when strangers approached us at the market. It was over a year before I stopped scolding them if they did not handle a situation like I expected. My teammates helped me realize that my girls were just children; they did not need to do everything perfectly. Of course, the sternness with my girls was really about the expectations I was putting on myself. They needed to behave well to show that I was a good mother. So, while I eventually began to be more relaxed with my kids, I did not give myself that same grace. I continued to insist that I do things “the right way.” And because I could not ensure that things would go as I expected, it became easier just to not engage.
Those feelings were exacerbated by my isolation. I did not share my insecurity, and thus there was no one to say, “Ann, you are new at this. You are not supposed to know how to do it all. Everything is okay. You are doing the best that you can. You do not have to prove anything to us or to God.”
It was a challenge, beyond motherhood, to navigate the odd terrain of being a married female missionary. I was to be both a missionary and a wife of a missionary. Supporting churches and organizations view missionary couples as a unit in some circumstances. When it comes to send-offs and updates and furloughs, husband and wife are lauded as “our missionaries.” Yet, when it comes to compensation and interactions with leadership, only one person is the missionary (and it is almost always the husband). The expectations, whether explicit or implicit, are that the wife will be an active member of the team, engaged in ministry activities, and involved at church. She will do the work, but she is not the employee. She will have a job description without the job benefits.
To be fair, the expectations of full participation in the mission work did not come primarily from our supporting church. It came from within myself. As a woman, I resisted the stereotypical idea that I was to stay home while my husband ministered. I had watched teams before me have very active women in ministry. My mom was an active missionary in her own right. I never had the notion that I would not be a part of what our team was doing. I intended to raise my girls knowing that they were full participants in church and ministry.
Yet, despite my desire, I also actually had to raise my daughters. I had to wash clothes, go shopping, give baths, help with homework, and so on. The line between missionary and homemaker was blurry, if there was a line at all. Keeping up with all the internal and external expectations was adding to the pressure of life on the field. I managed to keep the plates spinning for a time, but it was becoming more and more of a challenge. My understanding of what it meant to be a woman on a mission team was unraveling. I had been a missionary for a year, and I was more confused than ever about my role. And then year two came.
After a year of doing qualitative research in the community and spending a season in prayer and discernment, our team decided that starting a business would be a practical and natural way to become a part of our community. The plans to open a pizza restaurant began, and it soon took up more time than any of us could have imagined. As things got busier, I made the decision to step back and not take on a major role in this part of our work. I was pregnant with our third child. I settled into the role of supportive spouse for the restaurant endeavor.
I could sense the tendrils of isolation tightening their grip around my heart and mind. Buck up, I told myself,you are an adult now. Yet, I could not ignore how hard this all was to navigate. I did not remember it being so difficult for my parents. Where was the idyllic childhood for my children? Why did I feel so lonely and empty? My intent had been to be “all in,” but I now barely wanted to be in at all.
Was I an equal member of the team who made team decisions while not participating in the day-to-day of starting a business? The fathers on the team could not make the same decision I had just made. I have never heard a man say, “I am an equal member on the team, but, during this season, I am going to step back and just be a dad.” But I could. I did.
The questions and doubts increased. Why should a woman have this option? Why should I? We raised funds together as we prepared to go as a couple. Our home church claimed, “We support the Reeses.” I was sent to be a missionary equal to my husband. Yet, here I was picking and choosing what I wanted to be involved in based on my desires, my passions, and especially my children’s needs. It was an uncomfortable place to be. I was not sure how to balance the responsibility to be a missionary, the wife of a missionary, and a mother. I could feel a tinge of guilt and shame every time I missed a ministry activity. I can still hear my anxious and confused voice wondering: “Is it okay if I am just a stay-at-home mom? A church is supporting us to be missionaries, yet here I am spending most of my time taking care of little kids. But, then again, are they even supporting me? What is my role as a missionary when I am not the one receiving the W-2? Am I a missionary when I am just raising my children?” Meanwhile, the pizza restaurant was demanding longer hours for my husband, and my anger and resentment grew. This is not what I pictured when we decided to start a business. It was certainly not how we imagined spending our time as missionaries. My husband was exhausted and frustrated. My protection and defensiveness on his behalf turned into a smoldering anger.
By this point I had convinced myself that I did not have anyone to talk to about it. I talked myself out of every option. If I called my parents, then they would most likely encourage me to come home. If I shared it with my sister or best friend, then they would only worry about me. Maybe they would tell me to leave, too. I cannot tell my elders or mentors at my home church. What if they do not think I am a good missionary? What if that affected our financial support? I did not want to talk to anyone on our team about my feelings, because they were a part of the problematic system. Talking about my anger would only cause more tension, I told myself. So the anger grew over the next year, and my retreat into isolation went deeper.
The pressure cooker burst in the summer of 2013. We had taken a trip to Chiang Mai as a family. We were driving to a park with the kids when the tears started streaming down. And they would not stop. This was no moment of sadness; it was an out of control release of anxiety and confusion and despair. We pulled over, and I said, “I don’t know what is wrong with me, but I feel terrible. My mind will not stop running. I feel like I am about to have a breakdown. I need a hospital or some kind of help. I am falling apart.”
I went for a medical exam where it was evident I needed to see someone who could address my mental health. Thankfully, Chiang Mai has a large population of missionaries and missionary care resources. Through recommendations from friends, I found a counselor who was available the next day.
I went to the appointment fearful of the unknown. She asked her gentle questions. I gave my curt answers.
“What do you look forward to each day?”
“Nothing.”
“What brings you joy these days?”
“Nothing.”
I eventually opened up.
“What are your days like?”
“I homeschool my children each day. I make it to the grocery store and to church, sometimes. But I feel like I’m going through the motions. I dread waking up in the mornings. The negative self-talk is so loud each morning that it’s hard to get out of bed. I am so angry and tired. God brought me here. I was obedient to the call. I was sure of the calling. And now what is happening? I feel abandoned.”
I also met with a psychiatrist on the same day. The diagnosis of depression and anxiety strangely brought relief. My struggles were not due to a lack of faith or will power. The answer was not to just try harder to be happy. I was not a negative, terrible person. I was depressed. I was anxious. I was hurting.
This is how my journey toward healing began. I started going to counseling every week.. The counseling center was a little over two hours from my home, but I was willing to make the drive. I needed the drive as I needed the help. Each time I made the drive home, I could sense the tendrils of isolation loosen their grip just a bit.
As I began, what I hoped would be, a process of healing and restoration, I knew I had to deal with some of my old “friends.” Guilt was the first. I felt guilty that I even needed help, and then guilty of my privilege to even afford to go to counseling. Guilt would mention this as I passed rice farmers in the fields on the way to Chiang Mai–all these people who I am sure had deep needs but did not have access like me. Guilt would point out how I was not fully present with my team. That I was so angry at my team. That I was not caring for my family like I wanted to. Guilt had so much to say during those early days of counseling.
Of course, there was also Shame. Shame at how I fell apart in service to God. Shame becauseI was raised to be more successful than this, more responsible than this. Shame that I was not the missionary I envisioned. Shame that I let God and myself down. Shame that I was another statistic of depressed missionary wives.
And then there was Grief and Anger. These two friends had become much closer in recent times. What is funny is that I did not know their names during the years leading up to my meltdown. They were around, but I could not identify them. Now we were thick as thieves. Thankfully, my counselor knew who they were. She helped me recognize areas of repressed grief from my life that I had never addressed. Most importantly, she helped me name why I was angry.
Things really turned around for me when my counselor asked me during one session: “What would it look like if you shared your feelings with your team?” At first I rejected the idea. But then I took that question to the corner of my backyard. My holy place. I would sit there when sleep did not come or anxiety crept up. It was there that my heart rate would slow down as I listened to the birds in the trees and the distant chants from the temple in the early mornings. There I would beg God to save me.
One morning, while I pondered her question in my backyard, I experienced the presence and movement of the Holy Spirit more palpably than ever before. I admitted to myself and to God just how angry I was. I was honest with myself and with God. I wasn’t trying to be someone else anymore. I was Ann. Ann who was ready to release guilt, shame, and anger in full transparency to God, myself, and others who loved me. I felt as if a large, jagged rock pushed its way out of my chest and left me bare, open, and vulnerable. The groaning of the Spirit released me.
A few days later I shared with our team how angry I had been at each of them over the previous two years. I figured they would be surprised. I was afraid they would be hurt. Yet, I will never forget their gentle eyes and kind words. “We knew you were angry. Thank you for telling us. We love you. We forgive you.” They embraced me and prayed over me as the grace of God flowed through them. It was a physical encounter with Grace that I will never forget. It changed me. I had never, and maybe never will again, felt so open and transparent in my life. I was free. For the first time in my life I had nothing to prove to God. To others. Or to myself.
I continued to move toward healing and wellbeing as we approached the end of our initial commitment of five years with our supporting church. It was time to decide what was next. Would we sign up for the next five years? Was it time to return? The discernment process was agonizing. We were confused and distraught. The questions were disorientating. Would God still love me if I left Thailand? Was it a waste of God’s time and resources if we left the field? What did I have to show our supporting church? Would God be disappointed in me, the missionary? Through many tears and prayers and conversations, we decided it was time to head back to Texas. We were exhausted,disappointed, and broken.
I was on a walk about a month before we left Thailand, and I asked God, “What will I say to people when they ask me about Thailand?” The answer came to me incisively yet gently, “Tell them I saved you from yourself.” I stopped in my tracks. This response was not the one I wanted, but it was the one I needed. God had saved me from myself. He had saved me from my pride. He saved me from my savior complex. He saved me from my anger. He saved me from the expectations of perfection I put on myself. He saved me by tearing down the image I had of a God who was waiting for me to pull myself together and get back to work. He saved me by revealing himself as the gentle God who whispers, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30) The burden I had carried for at least the previous five years, the burden to save Thailand, did not feel light or easy. What I was carrying was heavy and oppressive. But how I longed for rest. I wanted an easy yoke and a light burden. And my salvation was discovering the gentle and humble God who was inviting me to learn His ways and live fully.
While I was so much lighter, there was one last piece of cargo I had to shed. God may have saved me, but what about Thailand? Who is going to save it? I processed this question with my counselor. After providing me with helpful questions to ponder, I was led once again to my backyard. Alone with God, I asked my questions with desperation. God’s gentle answers flowed back to me in the silence. He reminded me that He loved Thailand long before I did. He had been working there long before I arrived, and He would continue long after I left. Then He asked me in return, “Do you trust me with Thailand?”
Did I? Could I? This country that was so integral to me being me. This nation that I loved deep in my soul. This place that was my home. Did I believe God loved and cared for it more than me? Could I trust that God would hold it in His hands? Would I let God be the savior of Thailand? “Yes,” I answered with tears in my eyes.
Freeing Thailand from my sweaty grip and placing it back into His gentle, loving hands was pivotal. It was a moment of both grief and liberation. The last tendrils of isolation snapped free. I could now take deep, healing breaths for the first time in years. Easy. Light.
…
Since returning from Thailand, I have come to realize how my story is both unique and common. No one else has experienced exactly what I did in northern Thailand. Yet, so many carry heavy loads that they were never meant to carry. And this is especially true for women in ministry, whether domestic or foreign. Now that I had been through a period of disillusionment, a “dark night of the soul,” I had eyes to see others who were in search of a gentle and humble God. People who, whether they knew it or not, were searching for a God who would save them from themselves. And with this recognition came a desire to help them hear God’s invitation to come to Him and find rest.
This led me to the practice of spiritual direction. While many Christians are unfamiliar with spiritual direction, it has a rich history in the Christian tradition. Spiritual direction has many definitions, but one of my favorites is from Richard Foster who describes it as “simply a relationship through which one person assists another in attending to the presence and call of God in all of life….It looks for how God is working, calling, prodding, and inviting us to new ways of being with Jesus in the midst of our circumstances. It focuses on building an intimate relationship with God over a lifetime, through all the problems, crises, joys, and blessings.”1 Spiritual direction provides a protected space to check in regularly with one’s spiritual life. It gives space to ask what one desires from God, space to explore how one is resistant to God. It creates space to wonder and doubt and seek. Spiritual direction conversations allow questions. As Henri Nouwen writes, “Seeking spiritual direction, for me, means to ask the big questions, the fundamental questions, the universal ones in the context of a supportive community. Out of asking the right questions and living the questions will come right actions that present themselves in compelling ways.”2
In these conversations, the role of the spiritual director is to encourage and draw out questions and wonderings. The director’s role is to listen in the presence of God. It is not to tell what to do but to attend to yearnings and to the movement of God’s Spirit. It is to ask probing questions and to facilitate discernment of God’s voice. It is to help name the disorientation and provide guidance for the journey toward new orientation, however long the journey might need. It is to help discover the true self. As Ruffing describes, “The spiritual direction conversation is a privileged place where the subtle interplay of desire and complex emotional responses can be uncovered and the directee then encouraged to return to prayer with greater understanding, self-knowledge, and self-presence.”3
My immersion into spiritual direction opened up a whole new world. As it brought renewal and transformation, I realized that I wanted to be a spiritual director myself. This was how my story would bless others. So, I began the certificate in spiritual direction program at Southern Methodist University in 2017. As I discovered so much about myself and about God, I could not help but wonder why I had never heard of spiritual direction earlier in my life. How different would my experience in Thailand have been with a spiritual director? How much less turmoil and more peace would I have felt if I had had a trusted spiritual guide to receive my questions of faith? At the time I did not have anyone to whom to take those questions, or at least that is how I felt. And that is how the feelings of isolation swelled. I always feared that asking the questions, especially if my church heard them, might lead to financial loss or a lack of confidence in my ability to minister. I know now that my church would not have been threatened by my questions. However, at that stage of life, I did not want to admit or show weakness. So, I kept the questions in my head. If I had only known that I was never supposed to do it alone.
Of course, spiritual direction does not shield us from dark nights. However, it can help us hear God’s invitation to find rest sooner and more clearly. If I had had a spiritual companion, I wonder if the questions that led me to isolation, depression, and anger would have led me to wholeness and freedom.
Spiritual direction can be a gift to any and all. I have seen God move in the lives of people from various backgrounds and with diverse life experiences. I encourage all to seek out a spiritual director who will walk with them as they pursue God’s Spirit at work in and around them. With that said, I have a special place in my heart for women in ministry, whether paid or not. Spiritual direction might be exactly what they need. So, a word to the women.
Being a woman in ministry is as complex as it is beautiful. You hold a unique space. You have sensed a call to serve God’s people in some official capacity. Yet, God’s people have mixed feelings and expectations about what that means. And you, collectively, are mixed as well. Some of you find yourselves in new territory with roles and opportunities expanding and deepening. This is exciting, and yet you may doubt whether you are up to the challenge. Others of you find yourselves in a context in which you have a more traditional role. Some of you feel very satisfied in that space while others are frustrated, tired, and grieving. Welcome to all of you. There is a seat for all of us at this big table.
My hunch is, though, that wherever you find yourself, you have had or currently have questions–or should we just call them doubts–about whether or not you are capable of fulfilling the role you have taken on. Or, at least, you wonder if there is any way to meet the heightened expectations that come with being new to the game. Though these expectations are not fair, whether they come from others or from within, you feel the need to prove you are worthy. That a woman is worthy. That is a lot to carry. I know. I have been there. I am there.
So, I encourage you to spend time reflecting on the roles you fill and the feelings that come with them. Invite Jesus to sit with you as you pray over them. And then ask your questions and express your doubts out loud. Do you feel the need to prove yourself? That is not Jesus. Does it feel like it is all up to you? That is not Him. Are you hesitant to share your questions and doubts with someone else, thus keeping you feeling isolated? Not from Him. What is from Jesus, the humble and gentle one, is an invitation to learn from him. To let go of your heavy load. To rest. To live fully.
Women in ministry, wherever you are in the world and whatever type of ministry you find yourself in, I am grateful for you. Jesus is with you and in you as you love your neighbors, your families, and those you serve alongside. I pray that, as you live and work, you may love yourselves well. May you find spaces to share the desires of your hearts with God. May you be reminded that you are a life-long learner, and that there is no expectation that you must do this by yourselves. Go to Him when you are weary and in need of rest. Better yet, go to Him before you are weary and in need of rest, and share the questions, barriers, and hopes in the safety of spiritual companionship. May you find peace under the beautiful yoke of Jesus.
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Finding a spiritual director is easier now than it has ever been. Here are some links to articles about spiritual direction, what to expect in direction sessions, and ways to get connected to a director.
https://www.retreathousecommunity.org/spiritual-direction
https://www.ignatianspirituality.com/making-good-decisions/spiritual-direction/
Ann Reese is a spiritual director living in Belton, TX. She received her spiritual direction certification at Perkins School of Theology at Southern Methodist University. Ann is also a middle school Special Education teacher. Ann and her family are active members of their church where her husband, Derran, serves as the preaching minister. She and Derran have three children, ages 18, 16, and 13. Ann is passionate about walking with people as they discern the movement of God in their lives. You can reach out to Ann for spiritual direction availability at annlynchreese@gmail.com.
1 Richard J. Foster and the Renovaré Team, “What Is Spiritual Direction?” Renovaré, accessed December 2, 2024, https://renovare.org/articles/what-is-spiritual-direction.
2 Henri Nouwen, Spiritual Direction: Wisdom for the Long Walk of Faith (HarperCollins, 2006), 5.
3 Janet K. Ruffing, Spiritual Direction: Beyond the Beginnings (New York: Paulist Press, 2000), 21.
