Choosing Light, Again and Again
There are days when the darkness creeps in before my feet hit the floor. When the weight of grief, worry, or just the sheer unknown threatens to steal the light before the day even begins. I used to think choosing joy or hope meant I had to feel it first. Now I know—it’s something I do before I feel it. A decision I make with tired hands and a trembling heart. Again and again.
Just a few weeks ago, Luke was cleared to drive again. After months of therapy and assessments, an occupational therapist who specializes in driving after brain injury gave him the green light. The whole process was surprisingly smooth—easier than we imagined it would be. Watching him get behind the wheel again, knowing what he’s overcome, has been one of the most surreal and beautiful parts of this journey.
But then came the first rainy morning.
It was just before 4 a.m. when I woke up to the sound of raindrops. My heart instantly started racing. I knew it would be the first time Luke had to drive to school in the rain since the accident. And just like that, my thoughts spiraled into what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. I couldn’t go back to sleep. For two hours, I ran mental laps around every possible danger, every forgotten detail, every fear. It felt like I had just finished a marathon—and the sun wasn’t even up yet.
We talked that morning. Just a quick reminder about slowing down, watching for slick spots, giving plenty of space between cars. And then he left. Confident. Calm. Ready.
He made it to school just fine.
But I didn’t bounce back as easily. The rest of the day, my emotions were on a rollercoaster. I was proud, terrified, grateful, and drained—all at once. Choosing light in that moment didn’t mean pretending I wasn’t scared. It meant acknowledging my fear, letting it pass through, and still deciding to trust. Still deciding to see the progress. Still deciding to give thanks.
And honestly? The light didn’t come quickly that day. It took time.
What Choosing Light Looks Like (for Me)
Choosing light isn’t loud or showy. Most days, it’s invisible to everyone but me. It looks like getting out of bed when I’d rather hide under the covers. Whispering a prayer while pouring coffee. Letting the tears fall in the car, then wiping them away and walking into work with a shaky smile.
It’s texting a friend instead of isolating. It’s stepping outside for five minutes of sun. It’s noticing the buds on the trees and remembering that growth always comes—eventually.
Choosing light is reminding myself, this moment is not the whole story.
It’s saying, “God, I trust you,” even when I have to repeat it twenty times before I believe it.
It’s believing that what we’ve walked through isn’t wasted—and that even on the hardest days, there is still goodness to be found, if I’m willing to look for it.
An Invitation for You, Too
Maybe you’re in a season where light feels far away. Maybe your heart races at 4 a.m., too—worried about your child, your health, your future. Maybe you’re exhausted from the emotional marathons no one else sees.
If that’s you, I just want to say: you’re not doing it wrong. Choosing light doesn’t mean you never feel fear or frustration. It means you don’t let them have the final word.
You don’t have to feel brave to be brave.
Start small. One quiet breath. One whispered prayer. One step forward. One honest moment with a friend. One choice to trust, even just a little.
Light isn’t always a sunrise. Sometimes, it’s a flicker. A candle in the dark. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
That rainy morning taught me something I keep relearning: light doesn't always rush in. Sometimes, it trickles through—slow and stubborn. And sometimes, I have to go looking for it.
But I found it that day—in Luke’s confidence, in the quiet drive to work, in the stillness after the storm. It wasn’t a dramatic moment. It was subtle. Gentle. Enough.
I’ll keep choosing light. Even when it’s hard. Even when it takes a while to come. Again and again.
And I hope you will, too.
If you’ve ever found yourself choosing light through the fog of fear or uncertainty, I’d love to hear about it. Your story matters here. Leave a comment or reach out—this space was never meant to be one-sided. We’re all walking each other home, one step at a time.
Keep shining,
