Pain has a way of rewriting the rules when and where it decides to stay. This one isn’t the quick, screaming kind I’ve stared down before—those short, vicious rounds throughout the day I could outlast with clenched teeth, a few jokes,and stubborn pride. No, this pain moved in like a tenant who never leaves. It’s consistent, persistent, long-term, the kind that starts before coffee and keeps perfect attendance through every hour until the next one.
Sleep checked out months ago. The body won’t shut down, the mind won’t quiet, and the nights just stretch out like a bad sitcom with no punchlines.I keep reminding myself I’ve been through worse. The difference is duration. Past pains were lightning strikes thorough out the day—bright, brutal, then gone until the next attack. This one is a violent monsoon, steady and soaking. That’s where the everyday truths come in handy. You know the ones: “This too shall pass” sounds cute on a coffee mug, but when you’re living it, it becomes a quiet chant you repeat between breaths. Or my favorite, the one I mutter to no one in particular: “Keep swinging, even if the hammer or gavel’s heavy.” Pain isn’t here to break you; it’s here to see what you’re made of when the easy days are canceled.
The only tools left in the box are the old, honest ones. Prayer, simple and direct, just me talking to the One who set the whole thing in motion. Meditation, sitting still long enough for the noise to settle. Music—sometimes loud and defiant metal, sometimes soundscapes soft enough to wrap around the ache like a blanket. And of course that quiet herbal friend, whether flower or concentrate, slips in without fanfare and softens the edges when everything else has already tried.
What keeps the whole thing from tipping over is faith. Not the memorizing scripture kind—just the steady knowledge that this isn’t random cruelty. It’s part of a larger plan, a blueprint only the Lord could draw. I hold that thought close. Spirituality isn’t a luxury right now; it’s the main beam holding up the roof. Without it, the walls start leaning. The roof starts sagging.
There’s something almost esoteric in the work, if you squint at it right. Like a rough stone on the builder’s bench, I’m being squared and leveled, stone chip by painful chip. The suffering isn’t punishment—it’s the mallet and chisel shaping something spiritual that wasn’t finished yet. I can’t see the final form, but I trust the hands doing the carving. He has a plan.
So I keep going. Prayer before bed, music in the dark, meditation when the body screams, and that small natural mercy when the hours feel too long. I’ve been through worse, and I’ll come out the other side of this one too—maybe not prettier, but definitely stronger. Maybe not in this world but the next, but I will win. The pain is consistent, but so is my refusal to let it have the last word. God’s plan is still unfolding. My job is to stay upright, keep the inner light burning, and swing the hammer one more time.