I was born and raised in a “Christian” family, but I noticed something strange in how we Christians sometimes forget God, always saying: “Oh my God, Lord Jesus.” The commandments said: “Worship the Lord your God,” and I wondered: “Was Jesus God or the son of God?” I didn’t have an answer, just as I didn’t know who the Holy Spirit belonged to—Jesus or God. These were issues that bothered the saint of my church. When I was thirteen, I had a miscarriage, and I was considered a bad example because I had my first child. I began to distance myself because those who I felt should have supported me turned their backs on me. I said: “Okay, if I’m the bad one because of how I dress, then how should I dress?” No one ever told me I was wrong, and no one ever visited me. For thirteen years, I attended the same church. As for my mother, she kept moving between two religions. One day she became Christian, and two or three years later, she wasn’t anymore. I never understood her… I used to judge myself when I was Christian—very religious. But then I would drink alcohol and dance. All this turmoil accumulated without me noticing. I would bite my nails until they turned black, barely slept, and isolated myself from the world. I started studying obsessively (I’m a nurse, paramedic, software analyst and developer, and an engineer). Studying was my refuge, but if you analyze it, it was an escape from my feelings. I felt empty, as if no one cared about me. I felt as if God had abandoned me. After speaking to a friend, she told me I needed help, and the diagnosis came: anxiety and depression with OCD. I took pills to help me sleep, but before that, I felt hungry and gained weight, which increased my depression. I left Barranquilla for another city, and things got worse. I felt increasingly miserable. I joined a music band; I played the saxophone, and I would laugh without feeling any happiness—until I met a Muslim young man. I never saw any bad intentions from him. He wanted to learn English, and I offered to teach him, but one day I stopped going online. He messaged me, and… I asked him to come back another day. I was in my worst state; depression appeared, but with despair. I no longer wanted to go out or eat. I felt so miserable that I no longer wanted to live. That day, he called about 12 times until I answered, extremely pretending to be okay. I told him I was fine, but he—whether it was Allah, I don’t know—said: “I know you’re not.” That day, he recited the Qur’an to me. He told me: “I want to read to you. You may not understand, but God understands. I speak in my language and you speak in yours.” That day, I don’t know what he recited; all I know is that I began to cry like never before. I hung up after I stopped talking, but it stayed on my mind. Night came, and I couldn’t sleep. I kept repeating to myself how miserable my life was, and I thought about it. I went out to my balcony and said: “If I jump from here, everything will end.” At that moment, I was staring at the ground when my phone rang. He was calling, so I answered. He asked what I was doing. We talked for about six hours, and I could barely speak. He said: “Close the door, and we’ll talk.” I closed the door, and we started talking a little about ourselves. I shared my views on religions, and he began sharing his. He told me about Islam and asked if I wanted to become Muslim. I said no. I said: “No, I feel so hot, I walk around like this… no, I’ll die.” He said: “Islam begins in the heart, and God alone knows the rest.” And that was it. Days passed, and routine caught up with me again. That day, I woke up in the middle of the night. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t breathe; I felt heaviness in the air, and my hands began to shake. I remember repeating: “Please, not again,” and I began crying. I don’t know how many hours passed. I went out to my balcony and said: “I don’t know what will happen to me, I don’t know what will happen to my soul, but if You exist, take me out of this hell. I have no strength left.” I was tired of pretending to feel what I didn’t feel. I was dying. “If You want death for me, then please make it quick. Forgive me if I’ve done wrong, but please help me.” I kept crying until brother Fattah Darmachi called me and sent me a message. He said: “Do you want to accept Islam? God accepts you, loves you, cares for you, and is waiting for you.” I was still crying, and I said yes. That day, around 3 or 4 a.m., I pronounced my testimony of faith. When I finished, I heard his strange words: “He doesn’t speak Spanish well.” So I thanked him. I kept thinking: “What happened? Can you believe it? The sadness is gone.” I felt sleepy and went to bed. I lay down and woke up around eleven in the morning. The brother left me many messages, and a group of Muslim women read them. Then he would call me and give us lessons and reminders through group calls in Spanish. They taught us how to pray, and my life completely changed. For more than a year now, I don’t know what medication is, and I haven’t had a depressive episode at all. Sometimes… I feel it approaching, but prayer makes it disappear