God,

I am tired. I am tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. I am tired in a way that stretches beyond my body and into my soul. I am tired of the pain, of the limitations, of waking up each day knowing that my own body has become something unpredictable, something fragile, something I can no longer trust.

I didn’t ask for this, God. I didn’t choose this. And yet, this illness has woven itself into my life, into my routine, into my identity in ways I never wanted it to. It has stolen moments I can’t get back. It has taken from me things I didn’t realize I would lose — freedom, certainty, ease, the simple ability to exist without thinking about how much energy every movement, every task, every morning will require.

God, I am grieving. I don’t know if I’ve ever said it that way before, but I am grieving. Grieving the version of myself that didn’t have to carry this. Grieving the plans I made before I knew my body would set its own limitations. Grieving the way people used to see me before they knew I was sick, before they started offering pity, before they started treating me like something fragile, or something to be worked around. I am grieving the way I used to see myself, because the truth is — I miss who I was before this, and yet, I don’t even know if that person exists anymore.

God, I need you to hold me here. I need you to be gentle with me, because I don’t have the energy to fight today. I don’t need someone to tell me to be strong. I need someone to tell me it’s okay to admit that this is hard. That it’s okay to mourn what I’ve lost. That you don’t love me any less on the days I am too exhausted to hope, too frustrated to be patient, or too overwhelmed to see anything good in this.

Please, be my strength when I have none left. Be my endurance when I feel like I can’t take another step. Be my comfort when the pain is sharp, when the exhaustion is heavy, when I feel like I am watching life pass me by while I am stuck in a body that won’t cooperate.

And God, if healing isn’t going to come in this season, help me to believe that my life is still whole. That I am not just the sum of my pain. That there is still beauty to be found here, even if it looks different than I imagined. Help me find joy in the small things that I can appreciate — in the moments of laughter, in the people who love me beyond what I can or can’t do, in the little glimpses of grace in the middle of the struggle. Help me to hold onto that light. Help me to live for it.

And on the days when it all feels like too much — on the days when the weight of this illness settles deep in my bones, when I don’t know if I can keep carrying such a burden, remind me that I don’t have to do it alone, God. Remind me that you are still here, that you are still holding me, even when I am too weak to hold onto you.

Amen.