Hello, dear readers.

How are you—really?

It’s a question we often ask out of habit, but rarely answer with our full truth. And lately, I’ve found myself unsure of how to respond. The truth is, I’ve been moving through my days with a quiet heaviness. A weight pressed gently against my chest. One I’ve kept hidden behind practiced smiles and small talk. I’ve told myself that opening up might feel like an inconvenience to others. That my sadness is best tucked away, behind productivity and performance. So I did what many of us do—I functioned. I showed up. I fulfilled responsibilities. And I kept the storm inside me silent.

But silence doesn’t make sorrow disappear. And lately, I’ve been hurting more than I care to admit.

My father’s health has been declining for months now. Just recently, his pain became unmanageable, and he was admitted to the hospital. Since then, my thoughts have been clouded by fear, helplessness, and guilt—the kind that follows you even into your sleep. As the breadwinner, going home isn’t a simple decision. Every pound matters. Every day of leave must be measured not in time, but in consequences. And in the quiet hours of the night, the guilt of not being there—the guilt of choosing duty over presence—weighs more than anything I carry during the day.

But grief, I’ve learned, is not always an ending. Sometimes, it’s an opening.

It’s a particular kind of ache to be so far from the people you love when they need you most. There’s a hollow feeling that comes from not being able to hold your father’s hand when he’s in pain. From not being able to whisper, “I’m here.” And so, I broke. One night, when the thoughts became too loud and the heartache too sharp, I let myself fall apart. And in that unraveling, I whispered the words I had been too afraid to say: I’m not okay.

But grief, I’ve learned, is not always an ending. Sometimes, it’s an opening. And in that space of brokenness, God met me. Not with loud answers or perfect solutions—but with stillness. With grace. With presence.

After my night shift, in a moment I hadn’t planned for, I sat with my ward manager. I let the words spill out. I told her what I was carrying. And to my surprise, she didn’t try to fix it. She just listened. With kindness. With compassion. And with a reminder that I’ve so often offered to others but rarely accepted myself: It’s okay not to be okay.

It’s okay not to be okay.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How we can pour compassion into everyone else’s pain but still deny it to ourselves. We tell others they’re allowed to feel, to rest, to cry—but when it’s our turn, we fear being seen as fragile or weak. But the truth is, there is strength in softness. There is bravery in honesty. And there is grace in admitting, I need help.

Since then, God has continued to show up—not always in dramatic ways, but in quiet, personal ones. Through my partner’s steady presence. Through the messages and check-ins from friends who didn’t need explanations. Through colleagues who offered support with no conditions. And always, through my mother—my lighthouse in every storm. Mama, thank you. For teaching me that strength isn’t the absence of tears, but the choice to keep believing in God’s goodness while your heart is breaking.

And yet, even in grief, gratitude lives on.

Today, as I sit with my thoughts and let these words find their way out, I’m reminded of something simple: on good days, gratitude comes easy. But on hard days, it becomes a quiet discipline. A form of resistance. And yet, even in grief, gratitude lives on. It shows up in small miracles—in warm tea, in deep breaths, in people who stay. I’ve come to believe that a bad day doesn’t equal a bad life. That crying doesn’t mean collapse. That falling apart doesn’t make you any less whole. It makes you human.

We forget that, sometimes. We hold ourselves to impossible standards. We carry burdens in silence. We confuse survival with strength. But healing doesn’t happen by pretending we’re unbothered. It happens when we allow ourselves to be real. To be seen. And to be loved anyway.

So, to you—whoever you are, wherever you are—if you’re struggling too, I want you to know: you don’t have to hold it all alone. You’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to feel unsure. You’re allowed to be messy, emotional, undone. And even in that undone place, you are still deeply loved, deeply worthy, and never abandoned.

This season is hard. But it’s not final. One day, I’ll look back at this chapter and not only remember the pain—but also the quiet resilience that grew from it. I’ll remember the girl who kept going, even when her heart was heavy. The girl who held on—not to the illusion of control, but to the hope that morning always follows night.

And if you’re still in your night season, hold on. The sun is still rising.

With love,
Anj ❤