Tag Archives: healing

When the World Feels Too Heavy: Wrestling with Pain, Systems, and the God Who Sees

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There are days when the weight of it all presses in too close.

Wars rage—some far away, some just beneath the skin of our own communities. I’ve walked the streets of Ukraine during a time of devastation, sat with students whose eyes carry both fierce resilience and unimaginable grief. I’ve seen the cost of war not just in rubble, but in hearts—young and old—trying to make sense of what has been lost, what has been shattered, and whether healing is possible.

I return home, and the pain doesn’t stay behind.

I sit with clients whose trauma echoes in every part of their being. Abuse survivors, people shaped by addiction, those who’ve endured betrayal, abandonment, and complex generational wounds. And though I am a therapist, I am not immune. I carry my own scars. I’ve known personal trauma, lived through seasons that left my soul scraped raw, wrestled with the echoes of pain that show up uninvited.

And sometimes, it’s not just the individual stories that haunt me—it’s the systems that allow harm to flourish.

I’ve worked in contexts where abuse was covered up instead of confronted. I’ve seen churches, cults, and institutions more committed to protecting their image than protecting the vulnerable. I’ve felt the sting of systemic racism, witnessed the corrosive effects of sexism, and watched how the language of God has been used to justify control rather than cultivate compassion. These aren’t isolated incidents. They’re part of a pattern—deeply embedded, tragically normalized, and too often silenced.

There are days I want to shout, Where is justice? Where is mercy? Where is God in all of this?

And I think… maybe that’s the most honest prayer we can offer sometimes.

Because if we read Scripture closely, we find a God who doesn’t shy away from these questions. The Psalms are full of them. How long, O Lord? Why have You forsaken me? Why do the wicked prosper?

We meet prophets who cry out against corrupt leaders and unjust systems. We follow Jesus, who flipped over tables in the temple—not because He was angry at people’s emotions, but because injustice and exploitation were taking place in God’s name. Jesus, who touched the untouchable, lifted up the marginalized, and told the truth even when it cost Him everything. Jesus, who suffered not just to save our souls, but to enter into the fullness of human suffering. Who bore wounds Himself.

This is not a God who avoids pain.

This is a God who joins us in it.

Still, it doesn’t make it easy. The pain is real. The rage is real. The questions are real.

But so is the invitation.

To stay tender.

To speak truth.

To work for change without losing heart.

To believe that healing is possible—even here. Even now.

There’s a strange kind of holiness in the wrestling. Jacob walked away with a limp, but also a blessing. Maybe we will too. Maybe our questions, our anger, our heartbreak—maybe these are not signs we’ve lost faith, but signs we are contending for a faith that’s worthy of the God we follow.

A faith that sees. That listens. That protects. That restores.

I don’t have all the answers. But I believe in a God who does not look away. And when I’m tempted to despair, I look to the faces of those who keep going—the clients who show up, the students who still hope, the survivors who speak their truth.

Their courage reminds me that love is still here. And so is God.

Even in the heartbreak. Especially there.

Creating Light in the Midst of Weight

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A reflection on heaviness, hope, and the quiet power of small things

The day began with the kind of sky that takes your breath for just a moment—endlessly blue, impossibly crisp. A perfect 70-degree Friday in Middle Tennessee, the kind that carries spring on its back and lets you believe, even briefly, that winter might finally be loosening its grip.

The breeze was gentle, the sunshine warm and golden. The air had shifted, and with it came a subtle lifting—like the world itself was exhaling. And for a while, I wanted to believe the world was matching the weather.

But it didn’t.

Fridays are usually lighter in my schedule, fewer clients, a slower rhythm. But not today.
Six sessions. Six sacred stories.
Each one heavy.

There are days when I can hold pain with open hands—attuned, present, but not overtaken.
Today wasn’t one of those days.

Some stories sat deep in my bones after the calls ended. I tried to release them, to shake off the residue, but the ache stayed with me, humming just beneath the surface.

I needed motion. I needed life.
So I ran errands—mundane things, just moving through the world like everyone else. I cracked the windows as I drove, let the breeze wrap around my arms, played music that made me feel a little more alive. It wasn’t a cure, but it helped. Sometimes joy isn’t loud—it’s a cracked window and sunlight on your skin. It’s the sacredness of simplicity.

But then came the news.

Political negotiations between the U.S. and Zelensky had gone poorly. And with a trip to Ukraine just a week away, the news landed like a stone in my chest.
Frustration.
Grief.
The slow kind of despair that doesn’t lead to action—just scrolling. Absorbing. Feeling helpless.

I sat with it for a while.
And then, I did what I could.

I went outside and strung lights across the back patio.
Threaded them carefully. Adjusted. Tweaked.
Stood back. Breathed. Reached again.

It was a simple thing.
But when the sun dipped low and those soft lights began to glow, it felt like something sacred.
A small act of intention in a world that often feels too chaotic to hold.
A reminder that even when everything feels dark and uncertain, we can still create beauty. We can still choose light.

Dinner with Macon helped too.
The kind of evening that lets you step out of your own head for a while. Good food. Easy conversation. Laughter. Presence. Nothing profound—just peace. And after a day like this one, that was profound enough.

Later, I began preparing for tomorrow’s dinner party—setting things in order, making space for connection and warmth. The thought of a full table, of laughter and shared stories, feels like something steady to hold onto.

Tonight, I find myself carrying a strange mix of things:

  • The deep trauma my clients entrusted to me.
  • The heaviness of international conflict and a personal stake in what happens next.
  • The contentment of simple rituals—errands, porch lights, a good meal.
  • The anticipation of a shared table tomorrow.

And all of it matters.

The hard things don’t cancel out the good, and the good doesn’t erase the hard. They sit together.
And somehow, both are part of what it means to be human.

Outside my window, the lights on the patio glow gently.
They’re not loud. They’re not spectacular.
But they are steady.

And tonight, that is enough.

If the world feels heavy today, maybe don’t try to fix it all.
Maybe string some lights.
Step outside.
Let someone else make you laugh.
Let the sun warm your skin.
Prepare for a gathering.
Make room for beauty.

Even the smallest lights matter in the dark.

The Weight and Wonder of Being an Online Trauma Therapist

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Being an online therapist specializing in trauma is both deeply rewarding and uniquely exhausting. It’s a profession that requires me to hold space for some of the most painful human experiences—grief, betrayal, loss, abuse—while also believing, fiercely, in the capacity for healing.

The Space Between the Screens

There’s something intimate about meeting clients online. They are in their own space—sometimes curled up on a couch, sometimes taking a call from a parked car, sometimes in a quiet corner of an office between meetings. The screen creates a buffer, but not a barrier. In some ways, it allows for a kind of rawness that traditional in-person therapy doesn’t always invite. There’s no office door to step through, no waiting room to navigate. Just me, them, and the work.

And yet, there’s a heaviness to it. The stories don’t dissipate when the session ends; they linger in the quiet hum of my computer screen, in the way my body holds tension after logging off. Unlike in an office, where I might have a moment to reset before my next client, in the online space, I sometimes find myself staring at my own reflection between sessions, taking deep breaths, shaking off the energy that clings.

The Unseen Challenges

Online therapy comes with its own set of challenges. There’s the heartbreak of frozen screens and lagging audio when a client is sharing something profoundly vulnerable. There’s the frustration of technological glitches when the work demands presence and attunement. And there’s the reality that sometimes, I have to sit with my own helplessness—when a client is in crisis and I’m not physically there to hand them a tissue, offer a grounding touch, or ensure their immediate safety beyond the words I can speak.

There’s also the paradox of being so deeply connected to clients yet physically alone. In a traditional therapy office, colleagues might be down the hall, a quiet reminder that I’m not holding all of this by myself. In online work, the space between sessions can feel isolating, the echoes of difficult stories left bouncing around in my own home.

The Beauty in the Breakthroughs

And yet, there’s profound beauty in this work. I get to witness resilience unfold in real-time. I see people take tentative steps toward healing, set boundaries for the first time, reclaim their voices. I hear the shift in their tone when they start to believe they deserve more. I see the tears of relief when they realize that their pain is not too much, that they are not broken, that healing is possible.

Being an online trauma therapist means trusting in the power of presence, even through a screen. It means learning how to transmit safety and warmth with only my voice, my eyes, and the small ways I adjust my posture. It means bearing witness to both the worst and the best of humanity—the way trauma wounds, but also the way people rise.

Holding the Work and Holding Myself

To do this work well, I have to care for myself with the same compassion I offer my clients. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way. I have to step away from screens, let silence fill the spaces where words once poured out. I have to remind myself that I am not responsible for fixing, only for walking alongside. I have to remember that healing is a process, and that I am simply one stop along the way.

Some days, I carry this work lightly. Other days, I feel its full weight. But always, I hold it with reverence. Because to sit with someone in their pain, to witness their return to themselves—that is sacred work. And I am honored to do it, one session at a time.