There are some blog posts that come easily.
This isn’t one of them.
I’ve stared at this screen for a long time because writing honestly means admitting something I don’t really want to say out loud.
The last couple of weeks have been hard.
Not just physically—but emotionally.
My health has taken another turn that has left me discouraged. There are days when I’m reminded, yet again, of the things I can no longer do. Dreams I once carried so confidently now feel like memories from another lifetime. Plans I expected to accomplish. Places I thought I’d go. The person I thought I would become.
Somewhere along the way, life changed.
And I’m grieving it.
I’m caught in that strange place between sorrow and gratitude.
One moment I’m overwhelmed by everything I’ve lost. The next, I’m deeply thankful for the people God has placed around me and the precious moments we still share together.
It’s an odd tension to live in.
Grieving yesterday while trying to treasure today.
Wondering what tomorrow will look like.
Feeling like life is paused while everyone else seems to be moving forward.
If I’m completely honest, I’ve been depressed.
Those words are difficult to write because people of faith sometimes feel pressure to pretend we’re always okay—as though trusting God means we never wrestle with despair.
But that isn’t the faith I see in Scripture.
David cried.
Jeremiah wept.
Job questioned.
Even Jesus stood at the tomb of Lazarus and wept.
God has never asked us to fake joy.
He’s asked us to bring Him our hearts.
And lately, mine has been heavy.
There have been moments when I’ve quietly wondered what my life is worth anymore. When illness steals your independence little by little, it’s easy to begin believing the lie that you’re becoming a burden.
I know my family doesn’t see me that way. Not even for a second.
When those thoughts creep in, I try to imagine one of my own children saying those same words. If my son or daughter looked at me and whispered, “I’m just a burden,” I wouldn’t hesitate.
I’d wrap my arms around them.
I’d remind them that their value has never depended on what they can produce.
I’d tell them I love them simply because they’re mine.
Isn’t it amazing how easily we extend grace to the people we love, yet struggle to believe those same truths about ourselves?
Maybe that’s because somewhere along the way we learned that our worth was tied to what we could accomplish—to how useful we were, and to how much we could give.
Many survivors of narcissistic abuse know exactly what that feels like.
We spend years believing love must be earned. That our value depends on meeting impossible expectations. That we’re only enough when we’re serving everyone else.
Healing means untangling those lies one thread at a time.
It isn’t just recovering from a relationship.
It’s rebuilding an identity.
And that takes far longer than most people realize.
This week I’ve had one song playing on repeat: Even If by MercyMe.
I’ve probably listened to it dozens of times. Not because it magically fixes the pain, but because it reminds me where to look when I can’t fix it.
One part of the song points back to the old hymn It Is Well with My Soul.
The story behind that hymn has always moved me.
The Story Behind “It Is Well with My Soul”
Horatio Spafford was a successful Chicago attorney and businessman, but the years leading up to the hymn were marked by devastating loss. His young son died from scarlet fever, and much of the family’s financial security disappeared in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871.
In 1873, hoping that time away would bring rest after so much sorrow, Spafford arranged for his wife, Anna, and their four daughters to travel to Europe aboard the SS Ville du Havre. He planned to join them after finishing urgent business in Chicago.
During the Atlantic crossing, the ship collided with another vessel and sank rapidly. Anna survived after being pulled from the water, but all four of their daughters died.
Spafford received a brief and heartbreaking telegram from his wife telling him that she alone had survived. He immediately began the voyage to meet her in Europe.
While crossing the Atlantic, the ship’s captain told him they were passing near the place where the Ville du Havre had gone down. In the middle of grief few of us can imagine, Spafford wrote the poem that would become It Is Well with My Soul.
The words did not come from a life untouched by suffering. They came from a father passing over the waters that held his daughters, choosing to place his shattered heart in the hands of God.
Composer Philip Paul Bliss later set the poem to music and named the tune “Ville du Havre,” after the ship on which the tragedy occurred.
He wasn’t denying his pain.
He wasn’t pretending everything was fine.
He was declaring that even in overwhelming sorrow, his soul could still rest in God.
That has stayed with me all week.
I don’t believe faith means pretending suffering doesn’t exist.
That’s not hope.
That’s denial.
There is a kind of positivity that tells hurting people to smile more, pray harder, or simply “have enough faith.” That isn’t what Jesus offered.
Jesus entered suffering.
He sat with grieving people.
He carried our pain.
Real hope looks suffering in the face and says, “This hurts more than I can explain—but God is still here.”
That is the kind of faith I’m asking God to grow in me.
I know God is able to heal me.
I’ve seen Him do miracles.
I still pray for healing.
I still ask boldly.
But lately my prayer has changed.
Instead of only asking God to remove the mountain, I’ve begun asking Him to help me love Him even if the mountain stays.
I want my faith to become deeper than my circumstances.
I want to love Jesus because He is worthy—not only because life is going the way I hoped.
That doesn’t mean it’s easy.
Some days it’s incredibly painful.
Some days I cry.
Some days I don’t understand.
Some days I wonder why my story looks so different than I imagined.
But every time I look back, I see the fingerprints of God.
He has never abandoned me. Not once.
He has carried me through betrayal.
Through abuse.
Through illness.
Through fear.
Through losses I never thought I’d survive.
He has never failed me.
Healing from narcissistic abuse has taught me something I never expected.
The deepest wounds aren’t always the obvious ones.
Sometimes they hide underneath the surface for years. They quietly shape how we see ourselves, how we receive love, how we approach God, and how we measure our worth.
It takes time for Him to uncover each layer.
Time to grieve.
Time to forgive.
Time to relearn what has always been true.
That we are loved.
Not because we are strong.
Not because we are productive.
Not because we can still accomplish everything we dreamed.
But because we belong to Him.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds.
I don’t know whether my health will improve or decline.
I don’t know what dreams God will restore or which ones I will have to lay down forever.
But I do know this.
Whatever comes.
Whatever tomorrow brings.
Whatever mountains remain.
Come what may—my hope is still in Him.
— Jewel ✨