The sunrise is lighting up the sky as I dawdle in the darkness, attempting to craft words out of thick feelings. So far, the backspace button has had more action than my brain. Somehow, this year has flown by in the surrealist of ways.

A big chunk of 2022 was spent in a different state, so I credit that with some of the time-warp funkiness. One minute, I was boarding a plane in the late afternoon. The next, I was wondering how (and why!) I’d accumulated more stuff than I could shove in my suitcases and take back to the Midwest.

Photo by Stephan Seeber on

I very distinctly remember calling my husband at midnight in mid-April. I’d just arrived in Colorado and I was crying because I couldn’t get a ride from the airport. I was exhausted and scared an Uber driver had tried to scam me. Somehow, I found an Uber and I talked with my brother on the drive to the hotel. I was scared to face the silence; scared to be alone. Somehow, I made it safely to my hotel and slept.

Spring was a continuous loosening of my grip… relinquishing the impossibly rigid “control” over my body, time, and autonomy. It was and is the hardest choice of my life—an admission of my own brokenness and need for help. My vision was dilated as I emerged in an increasingly bright world. It felt like everyone was staring right at my shame. And yet, somehow I resisted the urge to run away and hide behind the shackled walls I’ve called home.

As I did, some pretty incredible humans came and set up camp along my walls. They consistently showed up for me; biding time as the barriers slowly came down. I tried to avoid the collapse at first. But at some point, maintaining the perfect facade became more like trying to recall an elusive dream—the more I focused on it, the harder it was to grasp. After a few months, I felt like all normalcy and strength had vanished. That’s when I curled up on a couch and cried like I didn’t know I could. Somehow, though, I didn’t merely see weakness in myself. I also recognized the glimmering logo of humanity: freshly-fallen tears. And tears meant I was alive.

Some pretty incredible humans came and set up camp along my walls. They consistently showed up for me; biding time as the barriers slowly came down.

I’ve never felt the roar of my humanity so overwhelmingly as when my heart hovered on empty this summer. Never have I experienced such pervasive hope as I did during those grey beginnings. So, it reasons that these grey, tear-stained memories lining the hallway of my mind are some of the best I have.

They’re moments of agony that have brought me to the Cross; stings of loss; separation from the identity I’d claimed but never wanted.

Photo by Simon Berger on

I never asked for these memories. I never wanted them. Yet I claim them with fierce devotion, nonetheless. The falling and breaking, bleeding and trusting—they all reveal the goodness of God and the miracle it is to feel pain… to cry… to hold hope despite all.

Somehow, one sunrise will follow another and I’ll still be here—getting accustomed to the light. Helping others do the same.



2 thoughts on “Somehow

  1. Oh, Hannah! Brokenness brings wholeness in the Lord’s mighty hand. Tears are from the overwhelming move of the Spirit on our human bodies that can’t contain it, whether from joy, pain, or conviction. Remember, the Lord is always with you and in you. The light within us is the light of Christ! Let it suffuse your being until there’s no room for anything but God’s presence and thanksgiving for all He has and is doing in your life. Shalom, precious sister!


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