I used to think I knew how to pray. Not perfectly, not with eloquent words or verses memorized, but in a quiet, personal way. A whispered thank you here, a desperate plea there. It felt like a conversation, even if I didn’t always know if anyone was listening.
But lately? The words don’t come out anymore. When I close my eyes, all I feel is anger. When I try to speak, it’s not praise that leaves my lips—it’s bitterness.
Everyone tells me God has a plan. That this suffering, this sickness, this unraveling of my body and my future is all for some higher purpose. They call Him merciful, a healer, a Father who never leaves us. And maybe those words bring them comfort, but they cut me open. Because when you’re the one losing everything, the idea of it being “part of the plan” feels less like love and more like punishment.
What kind of God writes cancer into someone’s story? What kind of God takes away motherhood, memories, and time? What am I supposed to learn from being stripped down until I barely recognize myself anymore?
I look at my life—the hospital wristbands, the endless appointments, the nights I lie awake feeling my body failing me—and I don’t see grace. I don’t see protection. I see cruelty. I see absence. I see silence.
People say to keep praying, to keep believing, to keep trusting. They say God only gives us what we can handle. But I don’t want to handle this. I don’t want to be “strong enough.” I never wanted to carry this weight. I wanted the ordinary life I begged for. The one with late nights rocking a baby to sleep. The one with decades ahead of me next to Pete. The one where I wasn’t rehearsing goodbyes before I’ve even had a full life to live.
So for now, I’ve stopped talking to God. I can’t sit here and pretend I’m not furious. I can’t beg anymore when all I get back is silence. Maybe one day I’ll find my way back to prayer. Maybe one day I’ll feel His presence again. But right now? The only honest thing I can say is that I’m angry, I’m hurt, and I feel abandoned.
God and I aren’t talking right now. And I don’t know when—or if—that will change.
💌 Closing
If you’ve made it this far—thank you. Thank you for reading the hardest parts of me, for sitting with me in the silence, and for not turning away when the words aren’t wrapped in inspiration. If my writing means something to you, I’d love if you subscribed, shared, or just kept showing up here. It means more than I can ever say.
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