I Won’t Give Up Yet

There are moments in life when the air itself feels heavy—when your own body becomes a battlefield and your mind a storm that won’t stop raging. Watching Tim walk through the valley of depression, anxiety, and PNES has been like watching someone fight a war the world can’t see. There are no visible wounds, no medals for surviving the day, no parades for courage. And yet, what he faces takes more courage than most of us could ever comprehend.

There have been nights when the shaking begins before the sun goes down, when his heart pounds so hard it feels like it might break right through his chest. I’ve seen the fear in his eyes—the silent question that never really needs to be spoken: Will I ever feel normal again? And in those moments, all I can do is sit beside him, hold his hand, and whisper the same truth over and over—You’re not alone. You’re still here. And we’re still fighting.

Because even in the middle of the shaking, even when the fear feels bigger than his body, there’s a presence that stays.

When everything feels dark and uncertain, God takes him—takes us both—and lays us down in peaceful fields. Not always literal ones, but the kind that live in the soul. The kind that whisper calm when chaos screams. It’s in those quiet spaces—between panic and peace—that we find the reminder that He’s still here.

The world calls it anxiety, depression, trauma. But sometimes, it feels like an enemy living inside—a voice that mocks, a liar that whispers all the wrong things. It tells him he’s broken, that he’s weak, that he’s trapped in a life he can’t fix. It tells me that I can’t help him, that no amount of love or prayer or patience will be enough.

But then God steps in, not with thunder or spectacle, but with stillness. He reminds us both that bravery isn’t always loud. Sometimes, bravery is just not giving up yet.

We’ve walked through the valley of shadows more times than I can count. Nights when seizures hit one after another, when exhaustion hollowed him out, when I sat on the floor next to him praying that his body would just find peace. Nights when faith felt fragile and fear felt enormous. And yet—every time—we made it through. Not because of our strength, but because of His presence.

When you walk through the valley of shadows, you don’t walk it alone. That’s the promise. That’s the truth that’s kept us both upright when everything else wanted to pull us under.

It’s okay to admit it scared us half to death. It’s okay to say it’s still scary. But fear doesn’t get the final word. Because when we remember that God is with us everywhere we go, the darkness starts to lose its power.

Tim’s fears are real. His anxiety isn’t something that can just be prayed away or ignored. It’s a battle that shows up uninvited and unpredictable, some days like a whisper, other days like a storm. Depression has a way of trying to convince him that life is small, that joy is distant, that hope has packed up and gone.

But here’s the truth that we hold to, even when we have to fight to believe it: the things that we’re afraid of are afraid of Him.

That one sentence changes everything.

When fear rises, He stands taller. When anxiety roars, He speaks peace. When darkness closes in, He lights the path—just enough for the next step.

And in those steps, we find life again.

When Tim’s emotions turn against him, when logic and faith both seem far away, I see a strength in him that humbles me. Even when he feels unworthy, even when he’s certain that God has run out of patience, he keeps showing up. He keeps breathing through the shaking. He keeps choosing to try again. That’s faith in its purest form—not the absence of fear, but the decision to keep walking through it.

There have been days when the depression feels like it’s draining every ounce of who he is. I’ve watched him fight through that fog—the kind that dulls color, that quiets laughter, that makes the simplest things feel impossible. We’ve done the appointments, the medication, the counseling, the coping techniques. All of it helps, but none of it fixes everything. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe healing isn’t about being “fixed.” Maybe it’s about learning to live fully even while you’re still healing.

Because even in the middle of all of it—God hasn’t left.

Sometimes it’s hard to see Him in the struggle, but He’s there. In the steady rhythm of Tim’s breathing after a seizure. In the quiet strength that shows up when he thinks he has none left. In the way peace creeps in, unannounced, in the middle of fear.

There are nights when I watch him sleep and whisper prayers over him. Prayers for calm, for courage, for light. And every time I do, I feel the same gentle assurance that’s carried us this far: I’m still here. Keep going.

It’s not easy, loving someone who fights invisible battles. There’s helplessness that comes with it, a kind of ache that sits in your chest because you wish you could carry it for them. But what I’ve learned—what we’ve both learned—is that love doesn’t have to fix everything to be powerful. Sometimes, love just has to stay.

Love sits in the dark and waits for morning. Love keeps holding on when everything else feels uncertain. Love whispers, “You’re safe now.”

And maybe that’s the miracle in all of this—that even when life doesn’t look like what we hoped, love still grows in the cracks. Faith still deepens. Light still gets in.

There’s no timeline for healing. There’s no perfect ending. But there’s progress—tiny, sacred steps forward. There are moments of laughter again, moments of peace that linger longer than they used to. There are glimpses of joy, of normal, of grace.

Tim may not feel brave every day, but bravery doesn’t require feeling—it requires faith. And that’s what he has. Faith enough to get up, to try, to hope. Faith enough to keep walking through the valley knowing he’s not alone.

We’ve seen the worst of days and still found beauty hiding in them. We’ve seen fear shrink when spoken out loud in prayer. We’ve seen the hand of God steady the tremors, calm the panic, breathe peace where there was only chaos.

And even now, on the hard days, we hold tight to that truth—
We won’t give up yet.

Because we’ve seen what happens when you don’t.

We’ve seen healing come in unexpected ways—in laughter shared over coffee, in a calm evening with no episodes, in the way hope always seems to find its way back home.

There’s a different kind of strength that grows in the valley—one that can’t be built on easy ground. It’s the kind of faith that says, Even here, God is good. It’s the kind of peace that knows fear may visit, but it doesn’t get to stay. It’s the kind of love that sees the brokenness and calls it beautiful because it’s still alive, still fighting, still reaching toward light.

So when the anxiety starts to build again, when his heart races and the tremors return, I remind him—and myself—that the same God who brought him through before will do it again. That even in the shaking, there’s purpose. That every breath he takes is a victory, every sunrise a promise, every quiet night a gift.

And when the fear calls his name, we’ll keep answering back with truth: The things that I’m afraid of are afraid of You.

Because the God who calms the storm isn’t just out there somewhere—He’s right here, sitting with us in the mess, holding us in the shaking, reminding us that darkness never wins.

This journey with Tim has changed me. It’s softened me, deepened me, drawn me closer to God in ways I didn’t expect. I’ve learned that faith isn’t built in the moments when everything’s fine—it’s built in the moments when it isn’t. When you choose to believe that even in the hardest season, love still has the final word.

And I’ve watched that love live in Tim—in his resilience, his humor, his quiet determination. Even when he feels weak, I see strength. Even when he feels broken, I see God still working.

We may still be walking through the valley, but we walk it hand in hand, hearts set on hope, eyes on the One who goes before us. Because no matter how long it takes, no matter how hard it gets, we’re not giving up.

Not today. Not ever.

Because we’ve learned something sacred here—something we wouldn’t trade for the ease we used to have. We’ve learned that peace isn’t the absence of pain; it’s the presence of God in the middle of it.

We’ve learned that courage isn’t about never being afraid; it’s about standing up, trembling and tearful, and taking one more step anyway.

We’ve learned that healing isn’t a moment—it’s a lifetime of grace upon grace upon grace.

And as long as there’s breath in his lungs and love between us, we’ll keep walking. We’ll keep believing. We’ll keep whispering, Lord, thank You for staying with us through the shadows.

Because even in the darkest valley, we have seen light.

Even when fear tries to take over, love still wins.

Even when the enemy whispers lies, truth still stands tall.

And even when the world calls this broken—
we call it beautiful.

Because in every shaking, every prayer, every quiet victory—God is still here. And we are still standing.

We walked through the valley of shadows. It scared us half to death.
But He’s with us everywhere we go.
And so—we won’t give up yet.