Woman at the Well

For most of my life, the story of the woman at the well lived in the background of my faith, tucked between memory verses and Sunday sermons I half remember. It became profound as a teen, when I watched a young girl perform it as a spoken word poem, chanting - “To be loved is to be known, and to be known is to be loved.” That phrase etched itself into my worldview. A woman, a well, a conversation that changes everything.

But as an adult, especially someone navigating deconstruction and the long, complicated distance between who I was raised to be and who I am becoming, the story has taken on a very different shape. I am far from the faith of my childhood, yet this story still finds me. It still feels like a place I return to.

In that story, a woman shows up carrying her history, her reputation, and her weariness. She doesn’t perform. She doesn’t pretend. She doesn’t try to impress or justify herself. She meets someone at the well who does not look away from her truth. He sees her for exactly who she is, and still the conversation continues. There is no punishment, no shaming, no demands for perfection. There is only recognition. And in that moment, she becomes known.

Growing up in the evangelical church, I was taught many lessons about God, worthiness, and what it meant to be a “good” woman. Most of those lessons were about shrinking or shaping myself into something more palatable. But this story - this single moment at the well - disrupts all of that. It is a story about someone being fully seen without filter. It is a story about identity shifting in real time. It is a story about truth spoken out loud and received with compassion.

Even now, far outside the boundaries of the faith I grew up with, I still believe in the power of being known like that.

Over time, the well has become more than a biblical reference for me. It has become a symbol of the places where I meet myself with honesty. A place where I stop performing and start listening. A place where I let the truth of who I am rise to the surface, even when it feels messy or unfinished.

The well is where I return when I’m tired. 

It’s where I draw from when I feel empty.  It’s where I come face-to-face with the parts of myself I’ve avoided. 

It’s where I remember that growth begins with recognition, not perfection.

So even as my faith shifts and transforms, the story of the woman at the well stays with me. Not because I still believe it exactly as I once did, but because I believe in what it represents: a meeting place between who we have been and who we are becoming. A space where we tell the truth. A moment where we are fully seen.

This blog is my well. 

A place to gather my stories. 

A place to speak honestly. 

A place to meet myself again and again.

And maybe, if you find yourself wandering here too, it can be a well for you as well.

A place where you feel just a little more known.