Wrestling With Faith

03.15.26

When people talk about trusting in a Power greater than themselves, it sounds good on paper. It’s easy to nod along when life is smooth. But when something inside you is hurting, the deep kind of hurt that sits in your chest and won’t move, faith suddenly feels like a lot to ask.

Part of me is trying to believe God has a plan. Another part of me is sitting here wondering if He sees how much this actually hurts.

What I do know is what it felt like before. When I was drinking, the loneliness was a different kind of hell. I wasn’t just hurting. I was fucking trapped inside it. Everything felt small and dark and sealed off. No hope, no help, just me and whatever I could pour into a glass to shut my brain up for a few hours. I remember feeling completely alone in the world, like there was nothing bigger than my own misery. Just me fighting myself in a closed room.

And the truth is, alcohol never fixed anything. It just made the room smaller.

Now the pain still shows up, but the difference is I’m not completely sealed inside it anymore. Somewhere along the way recovery cracked the door open. I don’t always feel faith. Honestly, most days it’s messy and uncertain. But I’m at least willing to believe there might be something outside of me now. Something bigger than my fear, bigger than my confusion, bigger than this moment.

Back then I believed in nothing except escape. Today I’m at least willing to believe in something.

Recovery is teaching me that faith doesn’t always start as certainty. Sometimes it starts as a tiny, stubborn willingness. Just enough to say, maybe there’s something here I can’t see yet. So instead of running like I used to, I’m sitting here with it. Writing. Praying even when the words feel thin. Staying sober even when my emotions are loud and my understanding is small.

I still don’t understand why some things hurt the way they do. I don’t know what the plan is, or if I’ll ever see the whole picture. But I do know this. I’m not numbing out tonight. I’m not running. I’m still here. And compared to the darkness I used to live in, that small willingness feels like a crack of light.