I have learned much about anxiety this week. How it makes the entire body buzz with an itch that won’t be scratched. How pulsing panic sits me bolt-awake from the depth of refreshing sleep. How I can’t organize my thoughts or talk myself down from the war within me.
The vibration of my phone alerts me of words I thought I was ready to take in, but it turns out I wasn’t. Immediately I croak the words out, white-hot tears burning my cheeks, finger slicing the air as it jabs toward Heaven. “I know I said to lead me, but I don’t like this one bit. I’m angry, and I’m terrified. I don’t want what You are giving me to carry. But… I trust you. And I’ll listen… and I’ll follow… You just better pick up the pieces.”
And the next thought after my white-hot rage is the words of a familiar hymn, and I draw breath as deep as I can so my quavering voice can scratch out the words of the melody:
“When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot thou hast taught me to say, it is well, it is well with my soul.”
Anxiety means something inside of me needs to be felt. It’s an SOS telling me that I have been avoiding important emotions that I have not fully faced yet. So I pause and make space for the actual feelings to seep in. When I allow myself to feel I recognize… I’m not anxious, I’m sad. I’m sad at the weight of this week; at all the broken and hurting pieces that have jumbled their way across these days socked in by the thundering gray skies.
So through my singing I let the tears fall, not as a sign of defeat, but as a release. I let the sadness wash over me, untangling itself from the frantic knot of panic. The gray skies outside haven’t cleared yet, and my situation has not magically changed. But the war inside my chest has begun to quiet down.
Surrender doesn’t mean I suddenly love the burdens I’ve been given to carry. It just means I’m choosing not to carry them alone. In admitting my grief, I find a strange kind of ground beneath my feet; a place where faith and real, messy human emotion can finally sit together in the quiet.
If you find yourself in the storm today, buzzing with an anxiety you can’t shake, try leaning into the quiet beneath the noise. Stop running from the itch. Name the real emotion waiting for you under the fear—whether it’s heartbreak, anger, or deep exhaustion. God isn’t intimidated by your white-hot rage or your quavering voice, and He certainly isn’t afraid of your sadness.
It’s okay if your voice shakes. It’s okay if you’re angry while you yield. He is faithful enough to hold the weight, gentle enough to pick up the pieces, and close enough to remind you that even here, in the middle of the ache, it is well.
Choosing Hope 