When the Darkness Feels Overwhelming
There are moments in life that pull the air right out of your lungs—when the weight of grief, fear, or uncertainty makes it hard to think, hard to move, hard to breathe. Maybe you’ve had a moment like that. I know I have.
August 28, 2024 is a date I’ll never forget.
My son, Luke, had been fighting for his life in the trauma ICU for seven days after surviving a severe one-car rollover collision. That morning, we sat down with Luke’s palliative care team and trauma physician to discuss his prognosis. His lungs were battling a fierce staph infection that was not responding to antibiotics, and if—if—he survived, we were told to prepare for a future in which he likely wouldn’t breathe on his own or walk or speak again due to the severe traumatic brain injury he sustained in the car accident.
Upon hearing this news, my body went numb. I couldn’t feel my feet on the ground. I couldn’t find the words to tell my family what had just been said. I just needed to escape—to find somewhere quiet before I completely fell apart. I needed to breathe air that didn’t smell like antiseptic and fear.
My husband drove me to a sporting goods store just a mile from the hospital. I needed clothes that were easier to manage in the trauma ICU—something comfortable, something practical. We now jokingly call them my “Luke uniform”: leggings and soft shirts I wore day after day. A small effort to feel human in an inhuman season, and a reason to leave the hospital for a few minutes.
Inside that giant store, surrounded by people just… living their lives—I felt this deep, burning anger. Why did they get to be happy? Why weren’t they drowning in grief and terror, like I was?
These emotions were overwhelming but understandable. What I didn’t expect was how a complete stranger would meet me in that fragile space. At checkout, one of the employees noticed my hospital visitor sticker. She gently asked if we had someone in the hospital. I couldn’t speak. The tears came hot and fast, streaming down my face as I stood there—completely undone.
That’s when she walked around the counter and wrapped her arms around me. She didn’t try to fix it or offer easy answers. She just saw me—a woman trying to hold it together while the world felt like it was falling apart.
Through sobs, I managed to whisper, “My son, Luke.” I felt her pull me in closer. She whispered, “Lord, be with Luke. Hold his momma, Lord. We trust You.” I cried into her shoulder like a child. A few moments passed, and she returned to the cash register to finalize my purchase. I watched her grab a Post-it note and write “Ms. Betty” and her phone number. She handed me the note and my bag and told me to call or text her anytime.
Ms. Betty didn’t try to fix anything. She didn’t rush me through the pain. She simply saw me, a mother trying to cling to hope but fearing the worst. She embraced me. She reminded me I wasn’t invisible—that my pain was real and worthy of comforting.
Sometimes, it’s the smallest acts of grace that carry us the farthest. A kind word. A gentle hug. A name remembered in prayer. These are the glimmers of light that help us keep going.
That day, my situation didn’t magically improve—but my spirit shifted. Just enough to keep me walking.
Months later, Luke had not only healed from his severe case of pneumonia, but he had also defied all odds and learned how to walk, talk, and live again. As we returned home from nearly four months of hospitalization and inpatient rehabilitation, I began to sift through all of the paperwork and medical records that had piled up since the day of his accident. Tucked inside a manila folder was Ms. Betty’s Post-it note. I decided to text her a recent picture of Luke from Thanksgiving and give her an update on his miraculous recovery. Not only did she remember our meeting that day—she had been praying for Luke every single morning for 101 days.
I was absolutely floored—and overwhelmed with gratitude for the kindness and faithfulness of a stranger.
That brief moment with Ms. Betty didn’t change the outcome, but it changed me. It reminded me that even in the darkest places, light finds a way through—sometimes in the form of a stranger’s arms, a whispered prayer, or a small yellow Post-it note.
If you find yourself walking through a hard season, here are three things I’ve learned that might help guide you, too.
3 Takeaways for Your Own Journey
Let yourself feel it.
Trauma can disconnect you from your own body and emotions. Don’t rush to “be okay.” Just give yourself permission to feel what’s true in the moment. Not everything we feel is true, but when we shove those feelings down instead of processing them, we delay our healing and miss opportunities to develop important skills like emotional intelligence and resilience that will serve us well in the future.
Accept help—even from unexpected places.
Healing often comes through the kindness of others. Stay open to grace, even if it shows up in unfamiliar or unexpected forms. Be willing to admit when you don’t have it together. Take time to pay attention to what your mind and body signal that you need. I know it can be hard to accept help, but there are seasons of need and seasons of plenty. You will get a chance to pay kindness forward later, but when you’re facing the darkness, that is the time to let others help meet your needs.
Look for the light—but don’t rush the dark.
The light will come, but it doesn’t always arrive on your timeline. Sometimes the tiniest glimmers—like a hug from a stranger—are enough to remind you that hope is still here. Just like the physical healing process takes time, so does our journey through the dark. My prayer is that you’ll allow others to come alongside you so you don’t have to shoulder the dark and celebrate the light alone.
We don’t always get to choose what happens in our lives. But we do get to choose how we respond—and who we allow into our journey. If this spoke to your heart today, I’d love to hear from you. Have you ever experienced a moment like this—where a small act of kindness helped you keep going? Share your story in the comments or send me a message. You never know how your light might help someone else find their way.
Keep shining,
