Everyone talks about surviving.
Few people talk about how close they came to giving up.
For years, I carried my burdens the way I had always carried everything else.
Quietly.
Faithfully.
One day at a time.
I survived diagnoses.
I survived hospital stays.
I survived surgeries.
I survived fear.
I survived uncertainty.
From the outside, it probably looked like I was handling it all remarkably well.
People saw me keep moving forward.
People saw me continue showing up.
People saw my strength.
What they didn't see were the nights.
The long nights.
The lonely nights.
The nights when the weight of everything became almost unbearable.
One particular night stands out in my memory.
Not because anything dramatic happened.
Not because there was an emergency.
Not because I was in a hospital.
It stands out because it was the night I finally ran out of strength.
At least my own strength.
I remember sitting alone in the quiet.
The house was still.
The world around me seemed asleep.
But my mind would not rest.
The exhaustion I felt wasn't just physical anymore.
It was emotional.
Mental.
Spiritual.
I was tired of fighting.
Tired of appointments.
Tired of medications.
Tired of pain.
Tired of uncertainty.
Tired of trying to be strong.
For years I had carried one challenge after another.
multiple sclerosis.
lupus.
A heart attack.
Aneurysms.
Surgeries.
Recovery.
Fear.
Grief.
It felt as though every time I climbed one mountain, another appeared in front of me.
And that night, I wasn't sure I had enough strength left to climb.
For the first time, I allowed myself to admit what I had been hiding.
I was hurting.
Deeply hurting.
Not only physically.
Emotionally.
Spiritually.
My heart felt heavy.
My spirit felt exhausted.
And the future felt overwhelming.
I remember crying harder than I had cried in years.
The kind of crying that comes from a place so deep you cannot even explain it.
Years of fear.
Years of disappointment.
Years of unanswered questions.
Years of carrying burdens no one else could fully see.
Everything came pouring out.
I wasn't trying to be brave anymore.
I wasn't trying to sound faithful anymore.
I was simply honest.
And honesty can feel terrifying.
I remember asking God questions I had asked before.
But this time, they felt different.
"Lord, how much more can I take?"
"Lord, why does it keep happening?"
"Lord, when will it get easier?"
For a while, there were no answers.
Only tears.
Only silence.
Only exhaustion.
And yet, somewhere in that brokenness, something began to shift.
Not around me.
Inside me.
Because for the first time, I stopped trying to carry everything by myself.
For years, I had been fighting.
Pushing.
Enduring.
Surviving.
But that night, I surrendered.
Not to illness.
Not to hopelessness.
Not to defeat.
I surrendered to God.
I finally admitted that I couldn't do this alone.
I admitted that my strength had limits.
I admitted that I needed His strength more than my own.
And strangely, that admission brought peace.
Not because my circumstances changed.
They didn't.
The diagnoses remained.
The challenges remained.
The uncertainty remained.
But something inside me changed.
I realized God had never asked me to carry the entire burden.
He only asked me to trust Him with it.
As I sat there crying, I felt something I can only describe as His presence.
Not a voice.
Not a miracle.
Not an instant solution.
Just a quiet reassurance.
A reminder that I was not abandoned.
A reminder that I was seen.
A reminder that He was still there.
Even in my weakest moment.
Especially in my weakest moment.
That night taught me something I will never forget.
Strength is not pretending you never struggle.
Strength is being honest about your struggle and continuing anyway.
Faith is not the absence of doubt.
Faith is choosing to trust God in the middle of it.
And healing does not always begin when circumstances improve.
Sometimes healing begins the moment we stop pretending we're okay.
When morning finally arrived, my problems had not disappeared.
But neither had my hope.
46For the first time in a long time, I felt lighter.
Not because my burden was gone.
But because I was no longer carrying it alone.
Looking back now, I realize that night did not break me.
It revealed me.
It stripped away my pride.
My self-reliance.
My illusion of control.
And in their place, God planted something stronger.
Dependence on Him.
The woman who sat crying in the darkness believed she was reaching the end of her strength.
She was.
But she was also standing at the beginning of something new.
Because after the darkest night of my journey came one of the greatest discoveries of my life.
God had been with me all along.
And soon, He would show me that more clearly than ever before.