When You Can't Breathe

I have a question I've been sitting with, and I'm going to ask it out loud because I think some of you need to hear that someone else is asking it too.

Have I lost my first love for this?

Some days the answer is a vigorous, chest-full yes, of course not — and those days carry me. But today? Today is not one of those days.

Today I'm up at 4am with a child who still won't sleep through the night.

A child who pushes every boundary not because she's bad but because she's waiting, watching, to find out if I'm really going to stay this time.

The school called again, confused, because she's a completely different kid at home than she is there.

Church felt like a chore last Sunday, and I felt guilty about that the whole drive home.

I'm sitting here wondering: do I still fight for truth in a system I know is broken? Do I still walk into this space with love, knowing full well how much I have failed at it? Do I still believe I was called here?

I don't know how to answer that today. What I do know is where I go when I can't answer it.

I crawl to my Savior. Not walk. Not run. Crawl.

There's a woman in Mark 5 who had been bleeding for twelve years. She had spent everything — every resource, every doctor, every last option — and nothing worked. She didn't stand up and give a prepared speech. She didn't wait until she felt worthy enough to approach. She pushed through a crowd and grabbed the hem of a moving Savior's garment.

That's it. That's the whole move.

He stopped. He called her daughter. He said her faith, that desperate, last-resort, crawling faith — had made her whole.

I think about her on the 4 am nights. When I don't have language for what I'm feeling, when prayer sounds like nothing more than I can't do this, when I'm too depleted to stand. She didn't stand either. She just reached.

And then there's Elijah, who had just called down literal fire from heaven, and then one threatening message sent him sprinting into the wilderness begging God to let him die. Burnout is biblical. And God didn't rebuke him. Didn't remind him of the miracle he had just witnessed. He sent an angel with food and water and told him to rest. The journey is too great for you.

If God said that to Elijah, He can say it to me. And when He does, the answer isn't to push through. The answer is to eat something and sleep.

Hannah couldn't even form words. She was so wrecked, so gut-level undone, that she just wept before the altar, silently, just groaning. And the priest thought she was drunk. And God heard what language couldn't carry. He answered what she couldn't articulate.

I hang onto that one. Because some nights all I have is the tears in the Target parking lot. And apparently, that counts.

These children are not mine.

They're not yours.

They're His. And His strength is what lights the fire when mine is completely out. His love is what flows through me for these kids — not because I conjured it up, not because I'm especially good at this, but because I keep crawling back to the source of it. In my weakness, in my 4am doubt, in my cracked and tired and sometimes resentful surrender — I find His strength.

"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." — 2 Corinthians 12:9

I used to read that and feel mildly encouraged. Now I read it and feel like I finally understand the assignment.

When the Anxiety Won't Quit

I'm not going to tell you to "just pray more" because if you're here, you've tried that and it felt hollow at 3 a.m., and you need something with more traction. Here's what I've actually found — in Scripture and in my own life — that moves the needle.

Lament before you try to be okay. The Psalms are full of people who were not okay and said so directly to God. Psalm 22 opens with "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" — which is not a triumphant opener. Give yourself permission to go there first. I've started writing my panic out on paper before I even try to form a real prayer. It sounds like: I'm exhausted. I don't know if I believe this today. I can't do this. Somehow, that's still the beginning of prayer. God is not waiting for you to clean it up first.

Rest like it's obedience, not weakness. Elijah's story is the permission slip I didn't know I needed. God's first response to his burnout wasn't a Bible verse — it was a nap and a meal. If you are running on fumes and your anxiety is through the roof, your body is sending a signal your spirit is trying to honor. Sleep is not laziness. It is stewardship. Rest is resistance against the lie that your worth is in your output.

Reach with whatever you have. The bleeding woman had nothing left — no standing, no resources, no speech prepared. She reached anyway. On the days when a full quiet time feels impossible, when the words won't come, when you can't find the verse you need — reach anyway. A whispered help in the kitchen counts. Grabbing your Bible and not even opening it counts. Putting on a worship song in the car and crying through it counts. He meets the reach, not the performance.

Pour it out — all of it. "Trust in him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge." — Psalm 62:8. Not the edited version. Not the version where you sound like you have faith. The whole thing. The resentment, the doubt, the anger, the exhaustion, the I didn't sign up for this specific kind of hard. He is not fragile. He can hold it. And something shifts when you stop managing what you bring to Him and just bring it.

Bring thanksgiving alongside the ask, not instead of it. Philippians 4:6-7 says to bring your requests with thanksgiving — and the peace that follows is described as something that guards your heart and mind. I used to read that as "be grateful instead of anxious." Now I read it as: name what is good and name what is hard, both, in the same breath. It's not toxic positivity. It's telling the whole truth. The gratitude doesn't erase the ask — it keeps the ask from becoming the only thing you can see.

Remember what He's done before. Psalm 77 is my go-to in the panic spiral. The writer is in anguish, can't sleep, questioning everything — and then he turns a corner: "I will remember the deeds of the Lord." He doesn't manufacture faith. He goes back to the evidence. What has God already brought you through? What did you survive that you didn't think you would? When the anxiety tells you this is too much and you won't make it, the record of your own story is an argument worth making.

Be still — on purpose. "Be still and know that I am God." — Psalm 46:10. This isn't passive. It's a choice, usually a hard one, usually made in the middle of chaos. Two minutes of silence. A hand on your chest. One slow breath. Not to fix anything — just to remember who is actually in charge of the outcome. You are not responsible for results you were never meant to control. You are responsible for showing up. He handles the rest.

And if you made it this far and you're still in the 4am — I'm in it with you. Reach for the hem. He'll stop.