Resting in Darkness

There are days when I feel myself dissolve into the quiet. Days I want to sink so deeply into my bed that the world could pass by unnoticed, like a river around a stone. To close my eyes for hours, days, weeks —maybe even months. A pause, a surrender, a retreat from the relentless press of life. I imagine myself like the woman in my mind’s eye — a figure lying in a coffin, serene, untouched by the noise, finally free from the weight of all these expectations, these endless responsibilities that never seem to lighten. The world would move on, as so many people in it already have, leaving behind the weight of their own problems on my shoulders as they walk away unburdened. I am tired of carrying what’s left behind.

Every day, new worries knock at my door, fresh crises grip my nights, and the unyielding demands of responsibility pile up around me, waiting to be handled. Even when I’m surrounded, I feel alone. Yes, it’s possible to feel entirely alone in love, in life, even in a crowded room. I am a mother, a provider, a woman who has crafted a life out of her own hands and carried it on her back. And still, every weight rests on me, unshared, unrelenting. Some days, I wish for an excuse to stop — something beyond my own will, something strong enough to pull me to a halt, so I wouldn’t need to carry it all, so I wouldn’t have to keep holding my own world together. It’s a dark thought, but I’ve felt its shadow cross my mind — a quiet, almost desperate wish to let go and simply rest.

For once, I imagine, maybe someone else could take control. Someone else could hold the reins of this life I’ve been pushing forward for so long. Just once, I imagine, I could surrender. But mercy has never been a visitor in my life. The same rhythm, the same story, plays out over and over — new faces, new problems, yet always the same lonely weight. Life has knocked me down more times than I can count, torn the breath from my lungs, left me gasping on the floor. And still, each day, I rise. There’s a small, stubborn spark within me that refuses to go out. No matter how strong the ache, no matter how heavy the silence, there’s something in me that lights up at dawn and tells me, “Today is a new day.” And I silence yesterday’s ghosts, hold back the creeping dread. Somewhere deep, I still believe tomorrow could be different.

These dark days, I have come to honor them. I sit with the ache now, without shame. They’re not wasted days; they are days that pull me inward, days I let myself feel every weight I’ve been carrying, every scar that still lingers. I let myself ask, Why? Why does it hurt? Why am I so tired? What am I clinging to, and what do I need to let go? These days of darkness, these moments of quiet surrender, have taught me the value of rest — the value of setting down the weight and letting myself pause. As a mother, as a woman who has fought to make her own life, I’ve come to realize that even I deserve a break — even if it’s just for a day. Even if that day is spent letting every buried tear fall until I am empty, until the exhaustion pulls me into a sleep that lets me breathe again.

I cannot change yesterday. I cannot undo the heavy thoughts that sometimes cloud today. But tomorrow — that is still mine. And when that first light breaks over me, I will remind myself again, “Today is a new day.” And perhaps, one day, I’ll say it and feel it. Perhaps, one day, I’ll say it and know it’s true.