Years ago, my boys climbed into my bed and whispered, “Mom, I’m scared of the dark.” They had no idea that just minutes before, I had whispered the same words to Jesus.

Not about the hallway light. Not about monsters under the bed. But about the kind of dark that feels like it might swallow you whole—the kind that grief ushers in unexpectedly. The kind that comes with uncertain test results, quiet prayers no one else hears, and news that knocks the wind out of your chest.

The kind of dark that cancer had threatened our lives with.

I remember sitting in that space, where everything felt fragile and sacred at the same time. The unknown felt like it was pressing in on all sides—the weight of what-ifs, the ache of what was slowly slipping away. I didn’t know what to do except hold tight to the One I hoped could still see in the dark.

Because the dark felt overwhelming.

And maybe, just maybe, today it does for you too.

Maybe your darkness looks like a diagnosis. Or the quiet of a home that used to be filled with little voices. Maybe it’s the weight of not knowing how a relationship will heal—or if it even can. Maybe it’s that tension between what you believed God would do and what He’s doing now. That ache between prayers lifted and answers still unseen.

I want to sit with you in that space, the way Jesus did with me.

I wish I could tell you to just choose joy, as if it were a switch you could flip.

I wish I could hand you a tidy quote like “Fear is a liar” and have it settle the unease. But fear, as much as we’d like to deny it, can feel painfully real. It plays tricks in the night and lingers in the morning light. It grabs your thoughts and shakes your confidence. It tells you you’re alone—even when you’re not.

But friend, hear me clearly: while the dark is real, it doesn’t get to decide what you do with your days.

You don’t have to wait for fear to loosen its grip to keep living.

You don’t have to wait for the grief to lift before you laugh again.

You don’t have to wait for clarity before you dream again.

Even here, in the middle of the night that doesn’t seem to break, you have permission to live. Permission to smile. Permission to breathe. Permission to trust—not because the road makes sense, but because your Savior walks it with you.

So if you’re in a season where the night feels long and the way forward is unclear—hear me: Jesus isn’t afraid of the dark.

He doesn’t panic in the silence. He doesn’t flinch in the shadows. He doesn’t rush you out of it either.

He is there with you.

Not pacing above you, frustrated by your slowness. Not calling from a distance, urging you to catch up. No, He’s with you—right in the thick of it. He’s not leaving. He’s not giving up. He’s not asking you to perform your way out of the pain.

If the darkness lingers, so will He.

He will sit in the middle of it with you, holding your sometimes-desperate, flailing heart, and giving you just enough grace to take another step forward. And that, dear one, might be all you need to get through today.

You don’t have to have all the answers. You don’t have to muster up big faith. You can bring your trembling, broken, questioning self and still be held in perfect love.

So let the tears come.

Let your breath slow.

Let Jesus meet you in the raw, quiet spaces.

And while you’re there, remember this: you are not a prisoner of this darkness.

You are a daughter of light. Chosen. Kept. Covered. Called.

Where you stand, the enemy has no claim.

Fear doesn’t get to call the shots, and hell has no hold on what heaven has declared free.