That Night Was Hard

I watched as my children were left out by family members and as words of comfort recently said to me were contradicted by actions, the reality of living with disability became apparent once again. The weight of knowing that family gatherings often leave us on the sidelines, or worse—invited with conditions that make attendance feel more like charity than celebration.

I sat in my quiet bedroom and let myself grieve. I grieved that this life is hard, and so much harder for my child. I grieved the relationships that remain surface-level because my reality is difficult for others to understand, and honestly, harder for me to trust people with. I grieved the dreams that look different now, the spontaneous moments that require careful planning, the isolation that creeps in when we’re left out of one more thing, and the anxiety when the world feels too overwhelming to navigate.

And in that space of honest sorrow, I found exactly what I needed: God's presence in the lament. There's something sacred about giving ourselves permission to grieve the hard parts of life —especially when raising children with disabilities, trauma histories, or complex needs. We're often told to "count our blessings" or "stay positive," but sometimes what we need most is to sit in the silence with God and say, "This is really, really hard."

Your grief might look different than mine that night. Maybe you're mourning:

• The typical milestones that may never come
• The judgment from strangers who don't understand your child's behavior
• The friendships that couldn't weather your reality
• The career dreams set aside for caregiving
• The marriage strain under constant challenges and exhaustion
• The siblings who sacrifice attention and opportunities

Whatever your lament, it's valid. It's holy, even.

In those raw moments of grief, I've learned to lean into God's comfort in ways that sustain me:

• Sitting in silence, letting tears be my prayer
• Reading psalms that echo my own cries of frustration and hope
• Walking outside, letting creation remind me of God's presence
• Journaling my honest thoughts without editing for positivity
• Calling on trusted friends who can hold space for my pain
• Remembering that lament isn't the absence of faith—it's faith expressing itself honestly

Last night, after I let myself feel it all, something shifted. Not because the circumstances changed, but because I had been held in my grief. I had given voice to what was breaking my heart, and in doing so, found that I wasn't alone in it.

The invitation isn't to rush past the hard or pretend it's not there. The invitation is to bring our broken hearts to the One who sees every tear, understands every burden, and sits with us in the darkness until dawn comes.

Your lament matters. Your grief is sacred. And you are held, even in—especially in—the hardest moments of this journey.

What part of your story needs the gentle space of lament today?