In The Eye Of The Storm

There are seasons in life when it feels like the ground beneath us shifts without warning, when the life we once knew is suddenly unrecognizable. For me, that season began the day seizures entered our story—not the kind that can be measured by brain scans or solved by a prescription, but PNES: psychogenic non-epileptic seizures. They came hand in hand with depression and the shadows of suicidal thoughts, wrapping their fingers tightly around my husband’s mind and body. From that moment forward, life felt like a storm that would not relent.

Every day brings its own gusts of wind. One moment, we may be laughing together, trying to carve out some sense of normalcy, and the next moment, I’m watching helplessly as his body gives way to another seizure. It is heartbreaking to see the man I love, the one I married, the one who used to be so strong and steady, collapse into something neither of us can control. It feels like the storm tosses us without mercy, stealing the sense of safety and rhythm that once marked our days.

And yet—somehow—through this storm, there is an Anchor.

“In the eye of the storm, You remain in control.” These words are not just lyrics; they are survival to me. Because in truth, nothing about this season feels controllable. I can’t stop the seizures. I can’t fix the depression. I can’t erase the weight of hopelessness that sometimes creeps into his eyes. And most days, I can’t silence the exhaustion inside of me, either. But I have learned that while I may not be in control, my God never ceases to be. His hand has not slipped. His grip has not weakened. What feels to me like chaos, He sees as already woven into His purpose. That does not mean He causes the pain—but it does mean that no wave rises higher than His command.

“And in the middle of the war, You guard my soul.” War is the only word that feels fitting for this battle. It is not just physical—it is emotional, mental, spiritual. Depression is ruthless; it seeks to consume not only the one who carries it, but also everyone who loves them. It drains joy, steals energy, and whispers lies that life is not worth living. And standing beside someone you love who wrestles with that darkness feels like being on the frontlines of a war you never signed up for. Some nights, I lie awake with worry, asking God to step in, to shield us, to breathe hope into what feels so broken. And somehow, even when the circumstances do not change, I find my soul guarded. There is a quiet strength that carries me when I feel I cannot take another step. There is a peace—fragile at times, but still present—that reminds me I am not alone.

“You alone are the anchor, when my sails are torn.” How fitting those words are. Because torn is exactly what I feel. Torn between faith and doubt. Torn between the desire to keep standing strong and the urge to collapse under the weight of it all. Torn between loving well and the raw ache of frustration. Torn between hope for the future and the grief of what has been lost. Yet, in the midst of being torn, the Anchor holds. His love does not shift when I waver. His faithfulness does not weaken when mine feels thin. He steadies me when I cannot steady myself.

There are days I question why this storm has not ended yet. Why healing feels so far off. Why prayers sometimes feel like they vanish into silence. And yet, I also know this: love surrounds me here. God’s love does not wait for the storm to pass—it encircles me right in the middle of it. His presence is tangible in the small mercies: a moment of laughter with my husband between seizures, the comfort of a quiet drive together, the gentle reminder that I still wake up every morning with breath in my lungs and a God who has not abandoned me.

Storms have a way of revealing what anchors us. For some, when the winds rage, their anchors break loose—anger, distractions, denial, or self-reliance. I have tasted all of those, and they have never held. But God has shown me again and again that He alone can anchor a soul in the deepest of waters. He alone can whisper peace in the chaos. He alone can hold steady when everything else feels torn apart.

Walking through Tim’s PNES, his depression, and the long nights of tears has taught me that faith is not about being unshaken—it is about being held when we are shaken. Faith is not about never questioning—it is about finding that even in our questions, God’s love is steady. Faith is not about escaping storms—it is about finding the eye of the storm, the very center where His peace meets our pain.

I don’t know when this storm will end. I don’t know what healing will look like for my husband, for our marriage, for our hearts. But I do know this: every storm has an eye, and every eye has peace, and every peace has His name written across it.

So, I will keep holding on. I will keep believing that God is writing beauty into this brokenness. I will keep clinging to the truth that His love surrounds us—even here, even now, even when I cannot see the horizon.

Because in the eye of the storm, He is still in control.

And that truth is enough to carry me through today.