I miss the way things used to feel between us.

There used to be a time when trusting you came naturally, when prayer felt simple, when faith felt steady, when your presence wasn’t something I questioned, but rather, something I simply knew was there. I used to feel so sure of you. I used to be so sure of your goodness, so sure that if I just prayed hard enough, or believed deep enough, you would meet me exactly where I needed you to, you would show up.

But then life happened, God. Pain happened. Trauma happened. And somewhere in the middle of all that ache, my faith started to darken, too.

It’s not that I stopped believing in you, God. It’s just that I don’t always know how to believe in the same way anymore. Sometimes when I reach for you now, there’s a fear in my chest that wasn’t there before. It’s the fear that you might be silent, that you might not show up, that you might let me down in the ways life already has.

I don’t want to weather this distance between us, God. I don’t want to hold this caution that sunk into my prayers, this hesitation that wounds my trust. But trauma taught me things I wish I never had to learn. It taught me how fragile safety can be, how prayers sometimes go unanswered in ways that break your heart, how even good people sometimes suffer through experiences that don’t make sense. Trauma made me different. Trauma changed my heart.

And part of me grieves that old version of myself, God. I grieve the version of me who trusted you without second-guessing, the version of me who wasn’t carrying all of this fear in the depths of my faith. I wonder if you miss that version of me, too. I wonder if you’re tired of my slow journey back home to you. 

There is a part of me that hopes you’re not actually asking me to go backwards, God. Maybe you’re still here, still steady, still patient, and still willing to meet me in the mess I didn’t choose. Maybe you never needed me to have perfect faith in order to still call me yours. Maybe you never intended for me to weather this alone.

So please, God, anchor me in this season. In this in-between space where my heart wants to trust you fully again, but my wounds still remember. Help me to believe that you’re not intimidated by my questions. That you aren’t disappointed in my struggle. That you are still with me, even here, even now.

Teach me that faith isn’t about pretending I’m unaffected — it’s about reaching for you even when I’m scared. It’s about showing up with a broken heart and still daring to trust, to pray, to hope. It’s about letting you love me as I am, despite how much I have changed, despite how dark my world has been at times. 

I’m still here, God. I’m still reaching. I’m still hoping. I’m still trying. Please help me to believe that that’s enough for you.