Cost of Conviction

When I gave my life back to God, I wasn’t naïve. I didn’t expect the world to stand up and clap. I knew that choosing to follow Christ. really follow Him, meant letting go of certain things. I knew it would come with questions, sideways glances, maybe even mockery.

What I didn’t expect was how quietly lonely obedience could feel.

Not dramatic loneliness. Not “isolated in a cabin in the woods fasting for forty days” kind of lonely. Just subtle things. The unspoken pause when you mention you’re waiting until marriage. The “oh… okay” when you pass on the prosecco for elderflower. The awkward, well-meaning compliments, “You’re so disciplined,” or, my personal favourite, “You’re honestly too good.”

(As if holiness were a flaw. As if conviction made me boring.)

The truth is, being a devoted Christian at twenty-something in this culture is like walking upstream in heels. You don’t just stand out—you get tired. You’ll sit at dinner tables with people you love and feel worlds apart from them. You’ll be in friendships where you’re constantly aware of how different your values are. You’ll date, and realise quickly that “Christian” on a dating profile often means “I went to a nativity in 2009.”

I’ve learned that devotion costs. Not just reputation—but comfort, convenience, sometimes even community.

And yet: I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Because faith hasn’t just given me things. It’s become the thing.

My compass. My covering. My clarity.

When I was living outside of it, when I was dipping in and out of God’s presence like a part-time visitor, I was never truly at peace. I was constantly performing. Aching for approval. Hoping the next plan, the next party, the next person would finally make me feel whole.

Now? My wholeness is not up for negotiation. It’s anchored in Christ.

And that anchor doesn’t mean I don’t drift, it just means I always find my way back.

I’ve had people tell me, “You’re too young to be this serious about God.”

As if faith has an age requirement. As if I need to collect more trauma before I’m allowed to kneel.

But what they don’t understand is that it’s because I’m young that I’m serious about this. Because I want to build a life with the right foundation, not patch it together later with regret and repentance. Because I’ve seen what a faithless life costs, and I refuse to pay that price again.

It’s not easy, of course. I still wrestle with impatience. With comparison. With the quiet ache of wanting something that hasn’t come yet: a husband, a family, a future that aligns with the promises I’ve tucked into my heart. Sometimes I wonder if I’m being “too rigid.” If I’m missing out. If there’s an easier way.

But every time I get close to compromise, I hear His voice again:

“Stay with Me.”

And so I stay.

Not because I’m perfect. Not because I never feel the pull of what’s popular or easy. But because I’ve tasted what life is like without Him, and I don’t ever want to go back.

This life of faith may make me the odd one out.

But it’s also the reason I sleep peacefully at night.

It’s why my joy isn’t dependent on who texts back.

It’s why my standards are high, not because I think I’m better, but because I finally know my worth.

I don’t need to dim myself to fit in.

I don’t need to explain away my convictions to seem “cool.”

And I don’t need to perform holiness to earn God’s love, it was already mine before I even chose Him.

So if you’re reading this and you feel the same tug, if you’re trying to walk with Christ in a world that tells you to run the other way, this is your reminder:

You’re not crazy. You’re not alone. You’re not missing out.

You’re being set apart. And yes, it costs. But the peace? The strength? The clarity?

That’s priceless.