In the Silence of 2 A.M.

People don’t talk about the quiet battles—the ones that come when the world is asleep. They don’t talk about how at 2 a.m., when the house is still and the night feels endless, I find myself talking to myself, going in circles in my own head. It feels like I’m digging a hole I can’t quite climb out of, and the silence only makes the walls feel higher.

People don’t talk about what it’s like to love someone who carries so much pain. They don’t talk about watching the person you love the most disappear behind the weight of depression or fall into seizures you can’t stop. They don’t talk about how helpless it feels to wish you could fix it, to gather all the broken pieces of him and put him back together, but knowing that love alone isn’t enough.

People don’t talk about how this changes you. How I try to be myself, but sometimes I feel like I’ve become someone else entirely—someone shaped by survival, someone who has had to step into shoes I never thought I’d wear. And in those moments, I wonder if I even recognize who I am anymore.

But I remind myself: I am not alone. Even when no one says it out loud, even when I feel invisible in the struggle, I know I am seen. Every unspoken prayer I whisper in the night, every time I steady Tim when he trembles, every time I choose to stay when it would be easier to run—I know God sees me. My weariness, my love, my fear, my hope—they all matter.

There are things I don’t always say out loud, because I’m afraid no one would understand. The cracks in my heart, the weight of trying to hold on, the way faith sometimes feels paper thin. But I know the One I trust sees even what I don’t have the courage to put into words. And when people don’t talk about the hidden struggles, I hear Him the clearest: You are not alone. I see you. I am with you. I am not done writing your story.

So yes, people don’t talk about this. They don’t talk about what it feels like to hold your breath during another seizure, or to feel exhaustion seep into your bones as depression lingers day after day. They don’t talk about how fragile faith can feel and yet how it still somehow survives.

But maybe that’s why I will talk about it. Because even if it hurts, even if my voice shakes, sharing my story might give someone else the courage to whisper, “Me too.”

People don’t talk about it. But I do. And maybe, just maybe, that’s where healing begins.