The Grace That Holds What We Cannot

Life doesn’t always unfold the way we plan it.

When I think back to the early years with Tim, we had so many dreams — trips we wanted to take, little goals we scribbled down, ordinary hopes of growing older together with laughter tucked into the corners of our days. None of those dreams included PNES. None of them included depression so heavy it sometimes steals the man I love right out from under me. None of them included the battles with insurance, the endless appointments, or the kind of weariness that becomes part of your bones.

Yet here we are. And somehow, here I am — still standing, still fighting, still trying to hold hope when it feels thin in my hands.

Being a caregiver to someone with PNES is a road I never expected to walk. It’s unpredictable, exhausting, and often isolating. The seizures come like storms, uninvited and unrelenting. His depression hangs heavy in the air, coloring even the brightest days with gray. On top of that, there’s work — the unkind words, the people who tear down instead of building up, the constant pressure that leaves me drained before I even step through the door of our home. And then the home itself — bills, meals, laundry, responsibilities stacked high, waiting for me to shoulder them alone.

It’s easy to look around and feel like life has been reduced to rubble. The version of Tim I knew before PNES is buried somewhere beneath the weight of illness. The version of me who laughed easily, who felt lighthearted, who carried dreams in her pocket — she’s buried too. We live in the “after” of a life we didn’t choose, and some days, it feels like the losses are too heavy to count.

And yet… there is grace.

Grace doesn’t erase the pain. It doesn’t magically make seizures stop or depression lift. But grace shows up in the middle of it all — a quiet, steady reminder that even in brokenness, there is beauty. Grace whispers that even though I am not flawless, even though I feel like I fail daily, even though I am weary and worn down, God sees me as His. Grace tells me that I don’t have to carry this alone, even when it feels like everyone else has forgotten.

At first, when Tim got sick, people showed up. They asked questions, they offered meals, they checked in often. But as the months turned into over a year, the questions stopped. People moved on. We didn’t. We still live this every single day, and that silence is heavy. It’s tempting to believe we’ve been abandoned. But grace reminds me that even when others forget, God does not. He does not move on. He does not stop asking how I am. He does not tire of sitting with me in the rubble.

Sometimes, when people call me resilient, I smile politely and thank them. But inside, I know resilience is not strength of my own making. It is grace. Grace has carried me when my legs wanted to give out. Grace has whispered hope into the silence when I wanted to quit. Grace has reminded me that love is worth fighting for, even when the battle feels endless.

I have lost so much of myself in this journey — but I am beginning to understand that maybe the “me” I lost is not gone forever. Maybe she is being reshaped by grace. Maybe, in the place of the carefree girl I once was, God is building a woman who knows how to stand in the storm, who knows how to love even when it costs everything, who knows how to cling to hope like a lifeline. That doesn’t mean I don’t grieve the old me, or the old us — I do. Every single day. But grace tells me that even in the loss, something new can be born.

There are moments when I see glimpses of it — when Tim laughs, when a seizure-free day surprises us, when a doctor listens, when a quiet peace slips into our living room. Those are the moments when I remember: this isn’t all rubble. There are still treasures here, if I keep my eyes open for them.

If you are walking through your own dark valley — maybe as a caregiver, maybe under the weight of your own illness, maybe just through the unspoken battles no one else sees — I want you to know this: you are not alone. The silence of others does not mean your pain is invisible. And the exhaustion you feel does not make you weak. It makes you human. And in your humanity, God’s grace is enough.

Flawless by His grace — that’s the truth I cling to. Not flawless because I am strong, not flawless because I get it right, not flawless because I manage to smile when I’m crumbling inside. Flawless because His grace covers every crack, every weakness, every moment I think I cannot go on.

I am imperfect. I am weary. I am often lost. But I am also held.

And so are you.