Hurt is inevitable. We all know it, but most of us try to avoid it. We distract ourselves, stay busy, keep saying “yes,” and push through. Somewhere along the way, many of us began believing that strength meant silence—that if we just held it together for everyone else, we were doing something right.
Especially for those of us caring for others—parents, teachers, nurturers—it’s easy to forget to tend to our own wounds. We carry scraped knees and bruised hearts that aren’t always visible. We patch things up for everyone else while ignoring the slow ache within.
For a long time, I chased peace through people-pleasing and productivity. I measured success by how much I could carry without breaking. But here’s the thing: avoidance isn’t healing. And toughing it out isn’t the same as strength.
Real strength starts with honesty, with naming what hurts instead of numbing it.
Pain has this way of teaching us things we might never learn in comfort. It stretches our empathy. It deepens our capacity to listen. It grows our ability to love. But none of that happens if we keep running from it.
Whether you’re navigating a classroom, juggling kids at home, holding space for others in your community, or just trying to hold yourself together, maybe you’ve heard some version of the phrase, “You won’t be given more than you can handle.” But if you’ve ever felt like you’re drowning, you know that’s not entirely true.
We do face more than we can handle. And it’s okay to admit that. That’s what teaches us to rely on God’s strength—not our own. We were never meant to carry everything alone.
Healing begins when we stop pretending we’re fine and start asking better questions: What if naming the pain is part of the healing? What if being “enough” isn’t about doing everything? What if peace isn’t found in having it all together, but in letting go?
For me, prayer is where I begin—sometimes messy, unfiltered, and unsure. It’s less about having the right words and more about making space for honesty. Some of my favorite ancient prayers, like those found in the Psalms, are full of anger, sadness, frustration, and hope. They remind me it’s okay to bring my full self into the light. Not everything has to be tidy to be true.
Even now, I’m learning to let go of old rules: You don’t have to keep the peace at the cost of your soul. You can forgive and still name the hurt. Gratitude and grief can coexist.
Strength isn’t about pushing through. It’s about slowing down enough to let healing begin. Whether you name your pain in prayer, therapy, journaling, or quiet reflection, what matters is that you give yourself permission to feel it, not carry it alone.
You don’t have to have all the answers. You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt. You just have to start with honesty.
Strength is surrender, not silence.
The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. — Psalm 34:18
Grace in the Disarray 