Exhausted but Still Here: Holding On When Faith Wavers

An Unending Road of Loss

Somewhere along the way, I realized that grief isn’t something I can just “get over.” People talk about healing like it’s a destination, like one day you’ll wake up and finally be okay. But what if that never happens? What if this aching doesn’t go away? I’ve been told to “press on” and “stay strong,” but the truth is, I’m exhausted. Brene Brown’s words feel true for where I am: “What we know matters, but who we are matters more.” And who I am right now is someone who feels lost, hurt, and—honestly—like I’m always going to be this way.

But it’s more than just sadness. It’s that overwhelming sense of missing someone who filled so many roles in my life. Mom was more than just a parent. Being single, she was my confidant, my partner in life’s little joys and challenges. Now, I’m supposed to just “move on”? How? There’s no replacing that. So I find myself asking: If I can’t “get over” this, what does moving forward even look like?

Dallas Willard once wrote, “We are unceasing spiritual beings with an eternal destiny in God’s great universe.” And that thought stirs something in me. Maybe this constant longing is pointing to something deeper—something eternal. Maybe it’s not just about what I’ve lost, but about finding a new way to live, a new purpose, even in the middle of all this emptiness.

The Void That Won’t Go Away

There are days when the pain hits harder, and I wish more than anything that I could make it stop. But Charles Spurgeon’s words come to mind: “I have learned to kiss the wave that throws me against the Rock of Ages.” What does that even mean? Am I supposed to be grateful for this? I’m not. I don’t want to “kiss the wave” that’s wrecked my life. I want my mom back. I want my old life back. But that’s not an option. So, what now?

Somehow, I’m learning to live with this deep void. It’s like trying to navigate a world that doesn’t make sense anymore. Nothing feels complete. But as much as I want to resist the pain, I’m starting to see that God is still here, even in the emptiness. I wish He’d just fix it, but maybe that’s not the point. Maybe, like Wes Hill said, “The goal isn’t to feel normal. Maybe it’s to be faithful.” Faithful when it hurts. Faithful when I can’t see what’s next. Faithful when it feels like all I have left are questions and doubts.

Honoring Her in the Pain

So, if healing isn’t about “moving on,” what is it about? For me, it’s about honoring her. It’s about finding a way to carry who she was into what I do, even when it’s hard. Writing these blogs feels like a small offering. It’s not going to bring her back, but if sharing what I’m going through helps someone else feel less alone, then maybe that’s something.

Henri Nouwen said, “When we honestly ask ourselves which persons in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.” That’s what Mom did for me, and that’s what I want to do for others. If I can share this story, if I can be honest about how broken I still feel, maybe someone else will see that it’s okay to not be okay. Maybe they’ll feel less ashamed of their own grief.

Grief doesn’t have a neat ending. It doesn’t wrap up with a pretty bow. It’s ugly, and it’s messy, and it sticks around far longer than we want. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that the presence of pain doesn’t mean the absence of God. Somehow, He’s here—in the tears, in the loneliness, in the moments when I can barely stand the ache. And if that’s true, then maybe “getting better” isn’t the goal. Maybe it’s about showing up every day, carrying the weight of loss, and trusting that God is still writing my story, even in the middle of this unifiable void.

Reflection Question

How do you carry on when the pain doesn’t go away? What does faith look like when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel?

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