Some mornings, it is time to get up, and all you feel is a blank, heavy wall. Not anger, not hope, just the gray numbness of, "What's the point?" It's the ache that comes when cancer won't loosen its grip, when the doctor visits mean more waiting for the next shoe to drop, and your prayers sound tired even to your own ears. Maybe you woke up this morning and you thought, "Does it matter if I get up?"

I know that wall. I've stared at it plenty of mornings. I still do. And if you're reading this, maybe you're standing there too, feeling like you're in a valley with no sunlight, asking, "Is it worth going on?"

But I also know you might be facing a completely different mountain. Maybe for you, it's the daily battle to overcome an addiction that keeps calling your name. Perhaps it's waking up alone after divorce, with silence where your children's laughter used to be. Maybe you're carrying the heartbreak of not being able to see your kids at all, or feeling crushed under the weight of being maligned or falsely accused by people who don't know your heart. Are you drowning in discouragement, and you see no way out?

If that's you, I understand. You're not alone, not in your pain, not in your battle, not in your wondering if there's any hope left.

Let's be honest. There are days when discouragement and depression feel as real as the cancer in my abdomen. And for me, that's not the only battle. My body no longer produces its own adrenaline. I have no adrenal glands left. That means I have to take steroids to live what most people call a "semi-normal" life. I wake up tired. Some days I wonder if I'll have enough strength to get out of bed, much less face whatever comes. The tiniest things can knock me off balance. I'm not writing this from a theoretical standpoint. I live in a body that won't let me forget its limits.

However, you don't have to be physically ill to feel stuck in the dark. Addiction, grief, betrayal, loneliness, they can all take you to the same valley. And the emotional wall is just as real as the physical one. This isn't about a lack of faith. This isn't about being lazy or weak. It's what happens when you're battered by wave after wave, year after year, of pain that won't let up. Anyone who tries to shame you out of it doesn't understand what it's like to live with the shadow of bad news, the waiting, or the grief for a life you wish you could have back.

If you're there, I'm with you. I'm not writing as someone who has it all together. I've cried in the dark, had surgery, treatments, doctor's visits, and wondered where God was. Is He listening? I've asked what difference another day would make. And I've learned, slowly, that it's in those places God does His deepest work.

When I hit that wall, I run to Psalm 23. Not because it makes the pain disappear, but because it tells me the truth I can't feel yet. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want." That first line alone is enough to hang your hope on for one more day. I am not in charge of providing for myself, making sense of my suffering, or figuring out tomorrow. The Lord, my Shepherd, is leading even here.

"He restoreth my soul." That's what I pray most often: "Lord, restore my soul. I can't do this myself." There have been mornings when all I could do was lie there and let Him carry me, let Him make me lie down in green pastures when all I saw were hospital rooms.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me." I don't know a truer sentence. The valley is real, the shadow is long. But you're not alone, not for a second. God is with you, even when you can't feel Him. Even when you're too tired to pray. Your feelings don't change His presence.

The truth is, cancer is still in my body. I still reach for those steroids 4 times every day, because my body doesn't make what it needs to survive. Some days, my mind wants to give up before the day even begins. Maybe your facts look different, maybe it's another round of rehab, or another court date, or another day without a call from your kids, or another rumor spread about you that you can't outrun.

If I look at the facts, I could let despair write the end of my story. But there's a deeper Truth: I am loved by God. You are loved by God. We are not alone. We are not victims of fate or randomness; we are cared for, guided, and held by the Shepherd who laid down His life for us.

That doesn't mean we feel strong every day. It means we're learning to look past what we see to what is more real than our pain: God's faithfulness. God's love. God's nearness.

People talk about gratitude like it's a trick for good days, but for me, it's the lifeline in the valley. Most mornings, I don't start with a list of blessings; I start with one. I thank God for the breath in my lungs. I thank Him for one more sunrise, even if my body aches. Sometimes, all I can muster is, "Thank you that you're still here. Thank you for not leaving me alone in this."

Gratitude isn't denial. It's choosing to remember that God is bigger than my feelings. It's how I find enough hope to get up, put my feet on the floor, and face another day, even when it feels impossible.

If you're facing this wall, this valley, this relentless waiting room of pain or addiction or shame, I want you to know there is an answer. There is a Shepherd who walks right into your darkness and refuses to leave you alone. There is mercy for every regret, and grace for every fresh start. God doesn't shame you. He doesn't abandon you. He walks with you, even when you feel too broken to walk with Him.

So if you woke up today and thought, "What's the point?" this is for you. The point is not to have it all together. The point is not to feel strong. The point is to trust that God's love is enough for this moment. Psalm 23 isn't a magic spell. It's a promise: You're not alone in the valley, and goodness and mercy are following you all the way home.

If you're there, I understand. And I'll keep walking, too.