I knew about God my whole life. My Nana was a pastor in Mexico, and my mom is from Mexico, so faith was just the understanding of what was going on — you prayed to God, you talked to God, God was there.

My dad is from Oregon, more of a hippy vibe. He was never anti-God; he just never really talked to me about Jesus. So I grew up somewhere in between all of that.

We didn't go to church very often, mostly because my parents were so busy — work was their whole world. And when we did go, I never felt a connection to it. It wasn't the sermon or anything; I just never felt like I belonged anywhere. Looking back, I grew up surrounded by so much faith, but there was also this quiet contradiction running underneath it: this is what we believe… but it isn't exactly how we're living. My parents were amazing — they killed it. But there were these little moments where I'd catch myself thinking, wait — is that what we believe? Okay.

I still don't fully understand how all of it works. But I know God was protecting me when I was younger. I think it's probably because my Nana was praying for me. I wasn't following the Lord at all, but I was always weirdly sensitive to His voice. I wanted to make Him proud, in this strange way I couldn't explain. I didn't really know anything about Jesus — His story, who He actually was — but I knew, okay, Jesus, right. He was just… there.

The Voice I Couldn't Explain

I went to an inner-city high school, and a lot of my friends were doing so much — drugs, all of it. I got put in some pretty intense situations. And I would just think, I'm not gonna do that. Which is so strange, because I couldn't have told you why. I didn't even know why. I just thought, I don't think I'm gonna do that.

Some of the girls I hung out with got into witchcraft. I never thought anything bad about them. But I remember being at a party once and feeling, so clearly, I probably shouldn't be here. So while everyone was inside, I just hung out outside with somebody else. I don't think I should be in there. Little things like that, over and over. I had no concept of where it was coming from. I just call it protection now.

Around my freshman year of high school, my parents sent my sister and me to a Young Life camp. We weren't even part of Young Life — my dad just called them, and somehow we ended up driving up with a group of kids from Idaho to a camp in Canada called Camp Malibu. It was a little awkward at first. My sister and I didn't know anyone; everyone else had been hanging out for years. But it ended up being one of the best experiences of my life.

It was the first time I ever experienced Christian community that I actually wanted to be part of. Before that, church had always felt like something I'd rather opt out of — a little stuffy, a little uncomfortable. This was the opposite. The people were normal and cool and fun. We were outside doing fun stuff together, and everyone was so sweet. My sister and I got really close to those kids. I didn't know it then, but that camp would end up pointing me toward the rest of my life.

I Stopped Paying Attention

By senior year, things at home were getting dramatic, and something in me shifted. For the first time in my life, I became really aware of a thought: I'm not going to listen to that voice anymore. Honestly, I think part of it was just boredom. What have I even gained from listening to it? It wasn't some big crisis of belief — I never decided God wasn't real. I just slowly stopped paying attention. And then COVID hit, and everything cracked open. Suddenly there was so much temptation, so much going on.

Ever since that camp, every time I told people about my life, I'd mention this amazing place I'd gone — Camp Malibu. And sometimes I'd try to look it up online. I'd search "Malibu," and Malibu, California would come up… and then Pepperdine would come up. That's how Pepperdine first got on my radar. A Christian camp in Canada led me to a school in California. I'd look at the photos and think, oh, that's really pretty. So when it came time to apply to college, there it was — that school I'd already seen. That's God. There's no other way to explain it.

To actually get on campus during COVID, you had to fill out an application saying you needed to be there — otherwise you stayed home, and the only people allowed on campus were athletes. So I filled out the form saying my parents were getting divorced and I needed to be there. None of it was true. But it got me out to California — and the timing was so God, because I really did need to be away from home for a while. I'd never been away from my family like that. And I'd never gotten attention from people the way I got it once I arrived.

I met Rocco the very next week. I met so many of the people I'm closest with now, all in that first week. All of a sudden it was like — whoa, new world.

Empty

So that was my freshman year. God was still so good to me — He kept providing friends, even while I was ignoring His voice. Thank You, Jesus. But I was already on a certain track, sliding more and more into the world. I'd think, why not, and smoke a little, drink a little. Nothing crazy. Just little things, here and there.

And by the end of that year, I had never felt so empty. So drained. So unsure of who I was. There was so much drama — honestly, I was the drama. I was probably the most narcissistic version of myself I've ever been, walking around like I was the coolest person who ever existed. And underneath all of it, I just remember thinking: where am I? This is crazy.

The Wilderness

The next year, I had a chance to study abroad in Germany. Most kids didn't take it, because they hadn't spent the first year on campus. At first I didn't want to go either. But then I was on a walk, and I felt God nudging me toward it. I hadn't felt His presence in such a long time — basically that whole year — and suddenly there it was, this quiet sense that He was asking me to do this. And I missed His voice. So I thought, okay. If that's what You want, I'll go.

There were only about ten of us, because nobody wanted to go abroad. And everyone else had actually studied German — they were really into it, speaking the language, fully invested. I'd taken the class online really quickly and hadn't paid attention at all. So I landed in this house in Germany with ten sweet, earnest kids I just didn't click with, thinking, how did I end up here?

That first semester nearly broke me. I couldn't accept where I was, so I was constantly escaping — running off to Munich with random people I'd meet, doing spontaneous things that honestly did make great memories. But then I'd come back to that house as the most exhausted, restless version of myself. The saddest I think I've ever been.

I finally understood what had happened. The year before, I'd built my whole identity on what other people thought of me — all that attention, all those voices telling me who I was. And in Germany, none of it existed. The teachers didn't care to connect with me the way I was used to; I'd smile at people on the street and they'd just put their heads down. Everything I'd propped myself up with was suddenly… gone.

That first semester I got really into meditation and mindfulness. It was actually good for me. I never went looking into another religion — probably because of how I was raised — but I'd sit and try to quiet myself. It's funny, because so much of how I pray now, just sitting and listening to God, feels like that same stillness.

Then second semester, I started praying for one specific thing. I ran alone every morning, and I just asked God: can You bring me one person to run with? One person. And this girl came — her name is Annie, and she was so sweet, total Pepperdine vibes. Every morning she'd wake up and spend time with God, and she'd bring her devotional. So I started grabbing a devotional too, and we'd read and then run together.

Annie is a huge part of everything that shifted in my life. Through her, I actually started paying attention to the Bible for the first time. Before that, I think I would've told you Jesus was real — but also that probably everything else was real too. I'd never really sat and thought hard about it. But I started reading, and this peace started settling over my whole day. After the most restless semester of my life, all I was doing differently was spending a little time with God in the morning — and the contrast was unreal. I used to wake up like, God, where have You forsaken me, and then after I'd actually meet Jesus, I thought: oh. This is the person. This is what's real.

That was my wilderness season. God taking you out to a place where you're completely stripped down? That was it, one hundred percent. The whole time I'd been so confused, wondering, did I even hear You right? You led me to a place that sucks. But the truth is, He led me there on purpose. He was saying: none of that is going to work, Capra. You can't rely on any of it. You have to rely on Me — and not just Me. On Jesus. That's what's real. That was the turning point of everything.

Learning to Say "You're Right"

Then I came back to Pepperdine, and I was friends with all the same people, and I felt completely naked. I'd just had this experience where I recognized that Jesus is Lord — and now I had no idea what to do with it.

This is where Rocco comes back in. When we first met my freshman year, I'd felt at home with him, but I was in such an egotistical season — and I mean ego, not confidence. I wanted someone to feed my ego, and Rocco felt calm and secure, which at the time honestly wasn't what I was looking for. So I wasn't that interested.

But when I came back from Germany, that same calm felt like home. And I really felt the Lord leading me toward him. I even felt that if I dated him, I'd marry him — I just felt it in my soul, like God was offering it to me. And it terrified me. I didn't want it. I'd never been in a relationship, and I was so scared of getting hurt, of handing my whole heart to someone and having it go wrong. There was a lot of old fear in there too, from when I was younger. But I was so comforted by him that eventually I just thought, sure. Okay.

We got together, and at first we weren't living anything close to the way we should have been. We were having sex, basically living together. I was going to church, and Rocco would come sometimes and sometimes not — he was busy with water polo. So there I was, having genuinely recognized that all of this is real, and still not able to make it line up with my life. I'd read something in the Bible — like, don't have sex — and just think, I don't get it. And if I don't get it, I don't know what to do with it. I was really just trying to figure out what I actually believed. So I prayed almost every day: God, this is crazy, I'm falling in love with this person — would You either take Rocco out of my life, or let this be something that glorifies You? I don't know what I'm doing.

The doubt was relentless. Rocco would make some random comment, or wear some weird outfit, and this wave of doom would roll over my whole body — I cannot marry that guy. Meanwhile he was just existing, doing his thing. I'd go on runs begging God, tell me, tell me if I'm going to marry him.

One day I came in from a run completely exhausted and laid down on my bed, still asking. And I felt like God said: he's not yours. I was like — well, that's terrible. I cried and cried and eventually fell asleep. Then Rocco showed up, and he came and cuddled me, and I woke up to the most peaceful morning. I lay there praying, am I supposed to break up with him right now? And it just didn't feel like that's what God was asking. I kept hearing it — he's not yours, he's not yours.

Surrender

Eventually we did long distance for a year, and that's when everything actually changed. For the first time we started really obeying what we felt God was asking. I had to surrender Rocco completely. We were apart — my life was here and his was there — and I just kept praying, God, You can take him out of my life. Take him out. If this isn't going to work, please just do it now. Over and over, I let go of him.

And that same year, on his end, Rocco got convicted about the sex thing himself — which mattered, because it's hard to be the only person in a relationship saying "we're not going to do this." It's too hard. I'd say it, and then the moment anything happened I'd take it all back. But he got there on his own, and he said, let's not do this. So we stopped. He started having these huge experiences with God, really getting connected to Him. And I was doing the same thing back home.

Somewhere in that year of surrender, God healed something in me. The "he's not yours" turned into something completely different: he's not yours — he's Mine. You have to hold on to Me, Capra, not to him. And when the year ended and Rocco came back and we weren't doing distance anymore, even in the moments he showed up, there was this new secureness in my soul. He wasn't something I had to cling to. He was a gift. There was a softness in me about him that I hadn't manufactured — God just did it.

That's why we're engaged. I genuinely don't think I could have married him without all of that happening first. He covered so much in my heart that I knew this was what He was asking me to step into. And even now when I pray, I still say, Lord, I surrender Rocco to You — but now there's a feeling to it, like in a way I actually have. There's a lightness to him. He's this person I get to take care of and walk through life with, but I don't have to grip him so tightly. That's all God.

What I'm Still Learning

If I'm honest, surrender is still the thing God keeps teaching me, in this area and a hundred others. My whole testimony has basically been learning to say: You're right. Even when it doesn't make sense to me, You're right, so I'll trust You. For a long time I had a hard time believing something just because someone else said it was true — I had to experience it for myself, figure out how it was real. It's only in the last year or two that I've gotten to a place of just knowing, no, He's simply right. It took me a really long time to get there.

One of the things I still wrestle with is rules. Sometimes you're around Christians and it's all you can't do this, you can't go there, don't be in that situation. And I've gone back and forth with God about that a lot — like, what do You actually have to say about this? Because sometimes someone will say don't ever have a drink, and I'll think, but I'm sitting here with a friend and this doesn't feel like sin. What I've slowly learned is that it's so much less about what I can get away with and so much more about how I can honor Him the most. Instead of asking why is this wrong, I've started asking, how can I honor You most here? And sometimes the most honoring thing is to go to the place I "shouldn't" — because there's a person there He wants me to talk to.

The honest blind spot is that I can be so anti-rule that I'll rebel against something just because it's a rule. And God's shown me that's its own kind of pride — being so aggressively against something because it feels legalistic is really the same trap as being legalistic in the first place. Either way, I'm not actually talking to Him about it. And that's the only place it ever really goes wrong for me — when I stop asking. When I bring it to Him, I can feel Him pressing me one way or the other.

People sometimes ask if I've gone through anything like that Germany wilderness season again since I started walking with Jesus. And yeah — definitely. But it's different now. That time was God emptying me out, and ever since, it's felt like He's been filling me back up. I still run into the same things and think, wait, I thought I figured this out — there's still this part of me that needs to feel approved or wanted. I thought God had taken care of that, but it's clearly still being worked on. The difference is, I don't feel as lost or confused anymore. Before, all those emotions made me feel like I was sinking. Now I still feel a lot of them, but underneath it I know how to get through. There's healing in it, even when the feeling is still there.

Looking Back

If I could tell myself one thing, back before I knew Jesus —

I think I'd just say: calm down. Pay attention. The reason it even took me a while to look back and see that it was God the whole time is that I was always moving so fast — energetic, chasing the next thing and the next thing, getting spun further and further into the world. It was never that I decided God wasn't real. I just got swept up. So I'd tell that version of me to slow down for a second and actually pay attention. Because here's what I've learned: you don't have to defend Jesus or prove Him. He's just real. It's all real. I only needed to stop long enough to notice.

And to anyone wrestling with whether God is real, whether Jesus is real —

Here's the one thing I'd say. You can't prove Him wrong. He's just real. I think a lot of us as Christians walk around feeling like we have to make Him real to people, and we don't. So just try to talk to Him. Ask Him to show Himself to you — He'll pay attention. And bring Him everything, including the doubt. You can literally tell Him you don't believe He's real. Sit down and say, okay Jesus, I'm confused, there's no way You're real, the things You've said are weird, I don't like how You let this or that happen — but I'm going to talk to You as if You're real anyway. Would You help me see You?

That's it. If I were struggling with all of it again, that's exactly what I'd do. I'd pretend He's real, bring Him everything I had, and see what He did with it. Because He's real. That's just what's actually happening.