A Place Where Pain Is Not Rushed And Hope Is Not Forced

When I first started writing, I was not in a good place. I was in a very dark place. And I didn’t try to hide it. I didn’t try to clean it up or make it sound hopeful. I didn’t try to make my words more “acceptable” to the people who would read them. I simply wrote what I felt—raw, heavy, unfiltered pain. I poured everything onto the page exactly as it was within me.

But more than anything, when I started writing, I was trying to understand my pain. I needed to make sense of what I was feeling. And the more I wrote, the clearer some things became. The more I put my feelings into words, the more understanding I gained. Slowly, bit by bit, the dots started connecting. Things I couldn’t explain out loud began to make sense on paper. Writing became the place where I could sit with my pain long enough to hear what it was saying. I was not okay. And my writing reflected that.

But not everyone understood. Some of my Christian friends would read my work and ask, “Where is God in all of this?” Others said my writing felt hopeless. And I understood their concern, I really did. But what they didn’t understand was this: Hopelessness was exactly where I was. I was not writing from a place of victory. I was not writing from a place of clarity. I was not writing from a place of strong, unwavering faith. I was writing from the middle of it. From the confusion. From the pain. From the anger. I didn’t understand why God would allow me to suffer the way I was suffering. I was hurt. I was tired. And if I’m being honest, there were moments when I was angry with Him. And I refused to pretend otherwise.

There was also something else on my heart when I wrote. I wanted my loved ones to understand what I was going through. Sometimes, I struggled to articulate my feelings in conversation. The words would fail me. But when I wrote, I could express myself more clearly. Writing became a bridge—something that helped me say the things I couldn’t always say out loud.

And it wasn’t just about me. I kept thinking about other people out there—people who were also struggling, people who felt unseen, unheard, and misunderstood. People who didn’t have the words for what they were feeling. I wanted to give them those words. I wanted to put their struggles into language that their loved ones could understand. I wanted to do justice to that kind of pain—the kind that is real, but often silenced or misunderstood. And so I wrote it as it was.

Still, there were days when the voices got to me. Days when I questioned myself. Days when I would go to my husband and tell him that I felt like I wasn’t writing “as a Christian,” especially because of what people were saying. But I thank God for him. He stood by me. He encouraged me to keep writing. He reminded me, again and again, that I didn’t have to force anything—that one day, I would get to a place of hope. And I held onto that, even when I couldn’t see it for myself.

Because had I forced hope into my words when I did not feel it, had I rushed my healing just to sound “faith-filled,” had I performed a version of faith that wasn’t real—I would have done an injustice to what I was actually going through. And more than that, I would have interfered with the very real work that God was doing in me. What I didn’t fully understand at the time is that there is something sacred about honesty before God. Not polished honesty. Not edited honesty. But the kind that says, “God, this is where I am. I don’t understand You. I am hurting. And I don’t know what to do with any of this.” That kind of honesty may not look like faith to people.

But I have come to learn that sometimes, that is faith. Because even in my confusion, even in my anger, even in my silence—I did not walk away. I stayed. I wrestled. I wrote. I tried to make sense of what I was feeling without pretending that I had already arrived somewhere I hadn’t. And slowly, quietly, gently… something began to change. Not overnight. Not dramatically. Not in a way that I could immediately explain. But God began to reveal Himself to me in a way that was not loud, not forced, not overwhelming—but subtle. Quiet. Patient. Real.

And the healing that followed was just as real. It was not rushed. It was not performed. It was not borrowed language from what I thought I should feel. It was mine. And now, when I write about hope, I am not reaching for something distant or imagined. I am writing about something I have come to know. Something I have experienced. Something that found me, not because I forced it—but because I allowed myself to be exactly where I was. If you were to read my writing now, you would find praise. You would find gratitude. You would find a deep sense of awe for the work God has done in my life. But that did not come from pretending. It came from allowing the process.

From not rushing the pain. From not forcing the faith. From simply being… and letting God do what only He can do.

I know my earlier writing made some people uncomfortable. But I also know this: There are people who are in that same place right now.

People who feel lost, confused, and maybe even angry with God. People who feel like they don’t belong in faith spaces because they don’t have the “right” words or the “right” feelings. And to those people, I want to say this: You are allowed to be where you are. You are allowed to feel what you feel. You are allowed to bring your whole, unfiltered heart before God—without pretending, without performing, without rushing yourself into a version of healing that is not yet real. Because God is not intimidated by your honesty. And your healing does not begin when you say the “right” things. It begins when you tell the truth.

So let this be a place—whether in these words or in your own quiet moments— A place where pain is not rushed, faith is not forced, and hope is still offered. Even here. Especially here.

If you or someone you know is struggling with depression or feeling overwhelmed, please don’t go through it alone. You can reach out to South African Depression and Anxiety Group (SADAG) at 0800 567 567 for support. There is help, and there is hope.