There was a time in my life when everything felt heavy. Not just stressful, but bone-deep heavy. The kind of weight that makes you sit in your car alone, gripping the steering wheel and begging God for a breakthrough. I can still remember those moments—crying until my chest hurt, pleading to be pulled out of the fire I was standing in.

I wanted so much in those days.
To be seen.
To be wanted.
To feel joy without having to earn it.
To become the woman I knew was somewhere inside me, buried under exhaustion, heartbreak, and survival.

But instead of deliverance, all I felt was silence.
And at the time, I believed that silence meant abandonment.

There was a song I played over and over again—my lifeline when my thoughts were too loud. I would drive to this little quiet spot I had retreated to for years, a place where the world couldn’t reach me. I still remember sitting there, both mentally and physically unraveling. I remember hating the life I was living, hating the choices that had brought me to that moment, hating that I had to make decisions that would change everything for me and my children.

I was angry with God—not just frustrated, but furious.
How could He let this happen?
Why wasn’t He rescuing me?
Why did the pain keep going when I was trying so hard to be faithful?

It felt like heartbreak without a bottom, a suffering so personal I didn’t think anyone else could ever understand it.

And yet…
Even in all of that darkness, something kept stirring in me. Something I didn’t recognize then, but I see clearly now.

His goodness.
His presence.
His quiet, steady faithfulness.

Not the dramatic rescue I begged for… but a gentle, stubborn love that never left me, even when I thought He had.

Looking back, I can see it—how He parted the waters for me, even if I didn’t realize I was walking through them. I’m not at the end of the journey yet; I’m not standing on the perfect, polished “other side.”

But I’m also not who I was in that car.

I’ve learned that God doesn’t abandon us in the fire.
He stands in it with us.
He holds us, carries our tears, and keeps working even when we’re convinced everything is falling apart.

This blog, this story, this whole journey I’m sharing—this is my reminder that suffering and goodness can live in the same place. That joy doesn’t come from avoiding pain but from walking through it and finding God’s hand in the middle of it.

I may not have arrived, but I have witnessed His faithfulness.
And I’m choosing to see life through both the good and the pain—because He’s been in both.