Finding Hope After Loss: How God Met Me in My Grief
Grief doesn’t knock politely—it crashes into your life, flipping everything upside down. One day you’re planning tomorrow. The next, tomorrow looks unrecognizable.
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Grief doesn’t knock politely—it crashes into your life, flipping everything upside down. One day you’re planning tomorrow. The next, tomorrow looks unrecognizable.
There was a season when I replayed the same mistake over and over in my mind, like a movie stuck on repeat. No matter how many times I confessed it, no matter how many sermons I heard about grace, I couldn’t shake the guilt.
I used to think “real Christians” never doubted. I thought faith meant unshakable certainty—never asking questions, never wondering if God really heard me, never doubting His Word.
I remember sitting in church one Sunday, staring at the worship lyrics on the screen, but feeling nothing. Everyone around me seemed moved—hands lifted, eyes closed. But inside, I felt hollow.
It was 2:17 a.m. when I stared at the glowing numbers on my alarm clock, wishing I could fall asleep. My mind was racing—replaying conversations, imagining worst-case scenarios, worrying about things that hadn’t even happened yet.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve prayed with tears in my eyes, only to feel like the heavens were silent. One night stands out. I was on the floor beside my bed, clutching a pillow, whispering the same prayer I had prayed for months: “Lord, please… please answer me.”
There was a season in my life when I kept a box of tissues on the nightstand and a bottle of medicine on the counter. Some nights I cried because my body hurt. Other nights I cried because my heart hurt. Sometimes it was both.
I can still picture the room. The blinds were drawn, the chair sat empty beside me, and the silence felt heavier than words. I scrolled through my phone contacts but didn’t call anyone. I told myself, “Don’t bother them. Just get through it.”
I’ll be honest with you: I didn’t always trust the Bible.

I’ll never forget the day I sat in my car in the grocery store parking lot and cried. Nothing “big” had happened. No tragedy, no loss, no crisis. Yet there I was, gripping the steering wheel, wondering if anything I was doing actually mattered.
I remember the hospital waiting room like it was yesterday. The smell of coffee that had been sitting on the warmer too long ?, the harsh fluorescent lights, the sound of the clock ticking too loudly for the silence in the room. I sat there clutching my Bible, but truthfully, I didn’t feel like reading it.
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