New Year’s Eve, 2025. Alone. On my knees in my office, tears poured out like a flood I couldn’t control. I wasn’t just crying—I was weeping from a place so deep it felt like death itself had found a home inside me. It was the end of what had been the most difficult year of my life, and yet, I wasn’t sure if I had even survived it.

I had spent 2024 feeling hollow. No friends, no family, no calls or texts. Hugs and laughter seemed like distant memories. Faith? Shaken. Hope? Barely a flicker. The emptiness was suffocating, yet I found myself in this paradox: crying out to God, yet struggling to believe He would hear me.

As a believer in Jesus Christ, someone who once proudly served the Most High God, I felt like I wasn’t allowed to feel this way. “This is weakness,” I told myself. “This is a lack of faith.” But the truth is, trauma had taken root in my life. I was begging God for restoration, for forgiveness. I had allowed my ex-spouse to take a place in my heart that should have always belonged to God. And when that relationship shattered, it felt like I shattered too.

Here I was, on the 20th anniversary of my rebirth in Christ, and all I could do was cry. I felt so far from the person who had knelt in an apartment two decades ago, full of joy and faith, surrendering her life to God. This time, there were no grand moments of divine encounter. No heavenly light or angelic voice. Just me, sobbing, afraid, and ashamed.

I condemned myself for reaching out to my grandmother, who always seemed to know what to say. I told myself I should be praying, but I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t stop the spiral of guilt: “I’m a hypocrite. I’m failing. I’m not worthy of God’s grace.”

But here’s what I’ve learned that night: God isn’t afraid of my silence. He’s not intimidated by my tears. He doesn’t condemn me for reaching out to someone else for comfort. He is patient, kind, and so much bigger than my brokenness.

In Psalm 34:18, it says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” That verse has become my anchor. God didn’t expect me to have it all together that night. He didn’t need eloquent prayers or perfect faith. All He wanted was my honesty, my surrender—even if all I could give Him was my tears.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been in a place like mine, let me tell you what I wish someone had said that night: it’s okay to not have it all together. It’s OK to cry, to feel weak, to question. God isn’t judging you—He’s holding you. He’s not punishing you—He’s drawing you back to Him.

Healing takes time. Trust takes time. But God is faithful, even when we struggle to believe it. I’m learning to trust Him again, to let Him rebuild what’s been broken. And I want you to know, you’re not alone in this journey.

If all you can do is cry, cry. If all you can say is, “God, help me,” say it. He hears you. He sees you. And in the silence, He’s still working.

You are loved. You are seen. And you are not beyond redemption.