Grief is a confusing journey because half the time, it doesn’t even feel like a journey. It feels like being dropped into the middle of a forest after dark with a map of a place that no longer exists. You recognize pieces of your life, but nothing sits where you left it. The future you planned is gone. The person you were feels far away, and somehow, the rest of the world still expects you to know where you’re going. People ask how you are, and you have to decide how much truth fits inside a conversation they probably expected to last thirty seconds. Some days, I can laugh, make plans, and pour myself into helping others. Other days, the smallest thing pulls the floor out from underneath me. I can have a good moment and still ache. I can feel hopeful about tomorrow and wish with everything in me that I could go back.
How does any of that make sense?
I keep trying to build a life around an absence that takes up more room than anything still here, and then there are the people. When you are barely keeping your head above water, you don’t always inspect the hand reaching toward you. You grab it. You believe the words. You lean into the support because you are exhausted, hurting, and desperate for somewhere safe to put even a small piece of what you’re carrying.
I leaned on people I thought were that safe place.
Learning that some of those supports were there for the wrong reasons has been its own kind of grief. There were people who supported me to my face but seemed to root for my downfall when I turned away. People who welcomed my vulnerability but grew uncomfortable with my strength. People I thought would celebrate with me who never seemed to want to see me succeed. It hurts to wonder whether someone was standing beside you because they loved you or because they wanted a front-row seat to your pain.
Then you start replaying everything. Every conversation. Every private thing you shared. Every moment you mistook access for loyalty.
Was any of it real? Did I miss something? How did I feel so safe with someone and end up here?
Betrayal makes you question your own judgment. I find myself approaching new relationships like a person testing ice, listening for a crack before I dare put my full weight down. I still care about people. I still want to help, but caring and trusting have become two very different things for me, and I am trying to figure out how to live with that without letting bitterness make all my decisions.
Then comes the advice we have all heard:
“Give it to God.”
I believe in that. I really do, and believing it and practicing it are two different things.
I can pray about something in the morning and spend the afternoon turning it over in my mind like I’m going to find an answer hidden on the other side. I can ask God for peace and then reopen the very thing that unsettles me. I can lay a burden down and pick it right back up because, apparently, I still think worrying might give me some control. Giving it to God sounds so simple until it is your hurt, your unanswered questions, and your trust sitting in your hands.
I don’t doubt my faith. I doubt myself.
I doubt my ability to be still. To stop reacting. To leave something alone when every part of me wants an explanation. I struggle with the discipline of choosing peace again after I have already chosen it once. Sometimes I want God to carry the weight while I keep directing where He takes it. That is hard to admit, and I would rather be honest about where I am than pretend faith has made this easy. I am learning that surrender may be something I have to practice throughout the day. In the moment before I respond. In the decision to close my phone. In a prayer that is less polished and more honest: “God, I am holding this again. Please help me.”
I am learning that I can make those choices without having every answer.
I can miss someone, grieve a friendship, feel angry, and still take a small step toward the life I want to live. I can be more careful about who I trust and still leave room for someone to earn it. I can acknowledge where I lack discipline without treating myself like I am beyond growth. The ground still moves beneath me sometimes. I still get lost, and there are moments now when I look up long enough to see something other than what has hurt me.
A little kindness. A real connection. A reason to laugh. A chance to make someone else’s day easier.
I want to keep making room for those things.
If you are navigating grief, betrayal, or the struggle of giving something to God and then taking it back, you are welcome here, even if you haven’t found the words for it yet. You do not need to share my faith for us to talk; God doesn’t need to be a part of this conversation if you are not comfortable with it. I respect this boundary and never want to force my faith onto you.
What has helped you find your footing when life stopped making sense? What does “giving it to God” look like for you in the everyday moments?
Leave a comment below if you feel comfortable sharing. You don’t need a perfect answer. Sometimes hearing “I struggle with that too” is enough to help someone take their next step.