When sadness speaks, hope still whispers.
I don’t talk about this often — at least not in the raw, unfiltered way I’m about to now. But I think it’s time.
Sadness has been my lifelong companion. Not the dramatic kind that storms in with fanfare, but the quieter kind that slips in, sits down, and refuses to leave. It has been here in my childhood, in my motherhood, in my creative work. It shows up on the scale, in the mirror, in the silence of unanswered emails, in the weight of my body that feels like it’s working against me.
I have fought it, wrestled it, pretended it wasn’t there, even tried to bury it under busyness or laughter. And yet… it never really leaves.
I don’t want to call it depression. That feels clinical, like a diagnosis stamped on a chart. What I want to share is the truth of living with sadness as a shadow that walks beside me. It’s not all of me — but it is with me.
Trusting You With This
I don’t write this lightly. For years, I’ve shared the beauty I see through my lens, the adventures, the tongue-in-cheek moments of expat life, and the glimpses of hope. But this… this is harder.
Still, I trust you — the ones who have been with me on this journey. You’ve seen me celebrate, stumble, and laugh through chaos. So today, I’m inviting you into the rawer places too.
Because I believe community is built not just on shared joys, but on shared honesty. And if you’ve ever carried sadness quietly, maybe my words can remind you that you don’t have to carry it alone.
Naming Sadness
This week, I tried to describe what it feels like, and these words came out:
I am not walking forward today.
I am sitting still,
in a cold and silent room
where shadows cling to the walls.
Outside, the wind howls —
a voice that will not be quiet,
a chorus of fear rattling the windows,
reminding me of everything unfinished,
everything uncertain.
I am afraid this night will never end.
Afraid the silence will swallow me whole.
Afraid I will slip into the dark,
alone, cold, and forgotten.
That is my raw truth. Sadness feels like this: endless, heavy, suffocating.
When Hope Whispers
But here is another truth: sadness is not the only voice. If I am still long enough, if I let myself breathe and pray, I hear another whisper.
Yet even here, in this cold room,
a faint glow lingers —
not from me,
but from a light that never fades.
The wind may howl,
but it cannot last forever.
Storms are loud,
yet seasons turn,
and spring has always found its way back.
I am not forgotten.
I am written into the heart of God,
etched in the memories of those I’ve loved,
woven into stories
that will outlive this moment.
I am not alone.
The silence trembles with Presence.
Even here, even now,
I am held.
The Honest Tension
I wish I could wrap this up with a neat bow — “I prayed, and everything lifted.” But that’s not the truth. The truth is that sadness is still here. It is likely always going to walk with me.
But so does hope.
Some days hope is only a flicker — fragile, trembling, barely visible. Other days it glows stronger, like a sunrise breaking through the darkest night.
Sadness and hope live side by side in me. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe part of faith is learning to walk with both — to admit the shadow but still lean toward the light.
Scriptures That Hold Me
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“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
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“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning.” — Lamentations 3:22–23
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“I will never leave you nor forsake you.” — Hebrews 13:5
A Closing Prayer
Lord,
I bring You my sadness — not hidden, not polished, but as it is. Thank You for holding me in the weight of it. Thank You that even in shadows, Your light does not go out. Teach me to live honestly with both sadness and hope, knowing that I am never forgotten, never alone.
Amen.
If you’ve journeyed with me awhile, thank you for staying — not only for the bright chapters, but for the shadowed ones too. My hope is that in this honesty, you feel the threads of our stories intertwining, reminding us both that we are never forgotten.
