There comes a moment in chronic illness when hope shatters. Not once, but over and over again—each time you think you've found something that might finally help, only to watch it slip through your fingers. A treatment shows promise, your body responds, and for a fleeting moment, you think: Maybe this is it. But then, without warning, the ground crumbles beneath you, and you’re right back where you started. Or worse.

It’s exhausting. It’s disorienting. It’s terrifying.

Your mind runs in circles, desperate for answers. What went wrong? Was it working? Was it all in my head? Is there something else I should be doing? Is there anything left to try? The weight of uncertainty presses down, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to exist.

You watch the life you once had slip further from reach. Will I ever work again? Garden? Hike? Laugh without fear of crashing the next day? The questions spiral, but the world moves on. And you wonder—is this it? Is my life over?

There is no roadmap for this kind of suffering. No quick fix, no clear next step. And when all the research, the protocols, the expert opinions leave you empty-handed, when every avenue has been explored and exhausted, all that remains is the unknown. The silence. The dark.

This is the Dark Night of the Soul. The place where you have nothing left to hold onto—except faith.

Not the kind of faith that promises quick miracles, but the kind that whispers: You are not alone in this. The kind that reminds you, even in your weakest moment, that healing is still possible. That Light still reaches for you, even here. So you turn toward it, raw and weary, and ask:

Please… let me feel You. Let me feel Your healing Light wrap around me. Show me that I am not forgotten. Show me that I am not alone. Give me the strength to sit in the unknown, to trust that even here, something sacred is unfolding.

Because even when the path is unclear—even when every door seems closed—healing is still being written in ways we cannot yet see.

And you are still being held.