Some mornings I wake up with a weight already pressing on my chest, like grief came before I opened my eyes. The room is still, quiet, but inside me there’s a storm that never sleeps. And the worst part? It’s not new. It’s not sudden. It’s familiar. It feels like a shadow that follows me from sunrise to midnight, whispering lies I’ve heard too many times before: You’re not enough. You’re too tired to fight. It would be easier to let go.
I don’t even remember when the battle started. I don’t remember when living started to feel like a decision I had to remake every single day. There are no dramatic moments, no big tragedies that broke me in one blow. Instead, it’s like a slow erosion, a thousand small cuts of disappointment, loneliness, exhaustion and grief. And yet, despite the darkness, despite the aching urge to escape it all, I’m still here. I’m still fighting, even though every day I question whether I should be. And I know it’s not my strength that keeps me breathing. It’s Jesus.
There are days when I can barely whisper His name, when reading Scripture feels like lifting heavy weights. But I do it anyway. Not because it’s easy. Not because I always believe with perfect faith. But because I’ve learned that Jesus is closest when I’m at my weakest.
I’ve read, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18) and I cling to that verse like a drowning person to driftwood.
Sometimes I wonder what people would think if they knew how much I cry in the shower. If they saw how often I stare into space, trying to will the pain to numb. On the outside, I try to function—go to work, put on a smile, even laugh. But underneath it all, there’s this desperate prayer: “Jesus, please don’t let go of me. Please. Not today.”
And He doesn’t.
There have been no lightning bolts, no miraculous overnight changes. But there have been small mercies that have kept me alive. A song playing at just the right moment. A message from a friend. A Bible verse I wasn’t even looking for that speaks directly into the ache of my soul. A random act of kindness. Those are the moments I know He’s still with me. Those are the threads of grace I keep weaving into my will to live.
I am so ashamed of how much I struggle because I thought being a Christian meant I had to be joyful all the time, full of praise and peace. But I’ve come to understand that real faith doesn’t always look like victory. Sometimes it looks like barely holding on. Sometimes it looks like dragging yourself to church with tears in your eyes, or whispering prayers through clenched teeth. Sometimes faith is simply refusing to die when the darkness tells you that dying would be the only relief.
And here’s what I’ve learned in this valley: Jesus isn’t disappointed in me for struggling. He’s not distant because I cry or because I’m weak. He doesn’t look down on me for questioning whether I can make it through another day. Instead, I believe He kneels beside me. He holds my trembling hands. He weeps with me. He says, “I see you. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Most days I still want to give up. I won’t lie about that. The pain doesn’t vanish just because I pray. But Jesus gives me the strength I don’t understand. He gives me one more breath, one more sunrise, one more reason to try again. And slowly, oh so slowly, I’ve started to see that my story isn’t over. That there’s purpose even in this pit. That maybe, just maybe, my brokenness is the place where His glory shines the brightest.
If you’re reading this and you feel like I do, like the darkness is too much, I want to say this as clearly as I can: you’re not alone. Jesus hasn’t left you. You are not weak for feeling this way. You are not faithless because you struggle. In fact, the very fact that you’re still here is a sign of astonishing courage.
You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to fix it all. Just keep breathing. Keep whispering His name. Keep showing up. Even when it’s messy. Even when you feel like a failure. Because Jesus isn’t waiting for you to get it all together—He’s walking with you through every broken moment. This battle is real. But so is the Saviour who holds us. And every day we choose to live, even when it hurts, we declare that His love is stronger than the darkness.
I’m still here.
And by the grace of God, I’ll be here tomorrow too.
To learn more about depression and suicide, visit Beyond Blue.
For crisis support or suicide prevention, please call Lifeline on 13 11 14 (AU), 0800 543 354 (NZ), 1543 (Fiji), 3260011 (PNG) or Lifeline’s equivalent in your local country.
Tanya Leigh Wood is a self-published author from Western Australia. A devoted wife and mother of four, she has a passion for writing and sharing everyday stories that reveal God’s presence in our lives, through every season of life.
