This season won’t last forever. And neither will the sorrow.
I’ve been waking up tired lately.
Not just physically — but emotionally. Spiritually. Soul-deep tired.
And maybe you know the kind.
Where you open your eyes in the morning, and before your feet even touch the floor, something inside you sighs. Not another day of holding it all. Of pretending you’re okay. Of trying to piece your peace back together.
I’ve had mornings where I couldn’t even find the words to pray.
So I just sat there, in the quiet, with tears welling up and thoughts racing.
And even in those moments — especially in those moments — I could feel God whisper:
“I’m still here. You’re not alone. This is not the end.”
Darkness Makes You Forget the Sunrise
That’s what the enemy wants, right?
He wants you to believe that this is it. That this heartbreak, this fear, this waiting season — it’s forever. That the joy you used to feel was a fluke. That the peace was temporary. That you’re never going to rise from this.
But the enemy is a liar.
And sometimes, when the night feels endless, you’ve got to remind yourself of the truth out loud:
“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5
I used to think that meant joy would come right away — like a quick fix, a guaranteed 24-hour turnaround.
But now? I hear it differently.
Joy comes.
Not always on your timeline. Not always in the way you pictured.
But it does come — slow, soft, sacred. Like sunlight peeking over the horizon of a heart that was starting to give up.
You’re Not Crazy for Feeling Like This
I know that voice. The one that says:
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- “You’re too sensitive.”
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- “You should be over this by now.”
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- “You haven’t really suffered — why are you struggling?”
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- “You don’t even know who you are anymore.”
I’ve heard all of it in my head. And I’ve fought hard to silence it.
Because the truth is, even good women — even strong, faith-filled women — get weary. Even the ones who love Jesus and pray and serve and pour themselves out day after day… even they find themselves in the dark sometimes.
And it doesn’t make you broken. It makes you human.
I Don’t Have All the Answers, But I’m Learning
I’m learning that God is still present when I’m numb.
I’m learning that healing isn’t linear — it’s layered. It’s slow. It’s uncomfortable. And it doesn’t always feel like progress.
I’m learning that joy and grief can live in the same breath. That hope and heartbreak can hold hands. That some days, just getting out of bed is holy.
And I’m learning — slowly, gently — that the sun will rise again.
The Signs Are Subtle Sometimes
It might not be a breakthrough or a big moment.
It might be:
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- Layla’s giggle from the other room
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- A hot shower that actually feels like relief instead of a task
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- Someone randomly sending you a worship song you didn’t know you needed
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- The way you suddenly realize you haven’t cried in a couple days
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- How you caught yourself smiling in the mirror
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- How, for a split second, you felt light again — even if nothing changed
Those are the sunrays. The holy hints that the night is lifting.
Here’s What I Want to Tell You
You’re not a lost cause. You’re not behind. You haven’t missed your moment.
You’re just in a night season. And God does some of His deepest work in the dark.
You don’t have to rush your healing. You don’t have to fake your hope. You don’t have to apologize for how long it’s taking.
Just keep breathing. Keep being gentle with yourself. Keep trusting — even when it’s quiet.
Because morning always comes. And when it does, you’ll rise with it.
Maybe not the same… Maybe not with everything figured out… But softer. Stronger. Wiser. And more you than you’ve ever been.
Take a breath, sis.
This season will not bury you. This night will not last forever. This ache will not be the end of your story.
Hold on to your faith like a candle in the dark. The sun is coming. And so is your next chapter. 
A Prayer for the Woman Still in the Dark
Lord,
Some days feel too heavy to carry. Some nights feel too long to survive. But You are still here — even in the silence.
You see every tear, every question, every breath she’s holding just to make it through the day. You know the weight she’s been carrying — the pain no one else sees.
So I ask You, Father…
Wrap her in comfort. Remind her she’s not forgotten. Speak peace into the parts of her heart that feel like they’ll never feel whole again.
Let Your light break through the cracks. Let Your joy surprise her in small, quiet ways. Let her feel You near — closer than the darkness, stronger than the fear.
And when she forgets that the sun is coming… Whisper it again. Gently. Patiently. “Morning is on its way.”
Until then, help her rest in You. Even here. Even now.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
A Gentle Pause Before You Go
Reflection Questions:
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- What’s one area of your life that feels stuck in the dark?
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- What does “light” look like to you right now?
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- How might God be softening or shaping something in this season — even if it hurts?
Take time with these questions. There’s no rush. Let your heart speak.
