Who knew there was so much darkness between the pain and actual healing.

It’s not rock bottom exactly. It’s not the chaos of active addiction or the numb blur of survival mode. It’s something quieter and more unsettling: the middle. The in-between. The space where you’ve chosen sobriety, chosen healing, chosen God—and yet the darkness hasn’t lifted. Nothing is better. In fact, things feel worse because you FEEL THEM ALL! And that is one thing you aren’t used to. Feeling.

This is the place where nights are the hardest.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. It comes with memories that didn’t ask permission. Nightmares replay trauma like it’s happening all over again—scenes your body remembers even when your mind wants to forget. I wake up with my heart racing, my chest tight, my spirit exhausted. Sometimes I feel hunted by my own past, like it’s lurking just outside the door, waiting for my guard to drop. Waiting for me to close my eyes.

And I wonder, God, where are You in this?

I believe in healing. I believe in redemption. I believe in the promises of Scripture. But belief doesn’t always quiet the terror at 3 a.m. Faith doesn’t automatically erase the images burned into the nervous system. Sobriety doesn’t magically undo what was done to us or what we survived.

This is the part of the journey no one romanticizes.

In sobriety, the fog lifts—and suddenly you can see everything. The pain you numbed. The wounds you outran. The grief you never had the safety to feel. And when trauma surfaces, it can feel like you’re moving backward.

I used to think if I called out to God He would appear like a magic genie. Like the darkness would scatter the moment I cried out. But lately, I feel nothing. Not fixing. Not rushing. Like He is above just watching me suffer. What is He waiting on.

Psalms is full of moments like this —David crying out from caves, from fear, from despair. Jesus Himself knew the terror of the night, sweating blood in Gethsemane, asking if there was any other way. The Bible doesn’t deny the darkness; it defines it. It shows us a God who enters it.

And that matters when you’re haunted.

I’m learning that healing isn’t always God taking the nightmares away. Sometimes it’s God meeting me in them. Holding me as I wake up shaking. Reminding me that the danger is over, even if my body hasn’t caught up yet. Teaching me, slowly, how to feel safe again.

Sobriety has taught me that presence is more powerful than escape. I no longer have the option to numb or disappear, so I’m forced to be honest—with myself and with God. I bring Him the terror, the anger, the confusion, the exhaustion. I don’t clean it up. I don’t pretend I’m okay. I let Him see me exactly where I am.

If you’re in the middle of the darkness—if you’re sober but still struggling, faithful but still afraid—know this: you are not broken for hurting. You are not failing because healing is slow. Trauma doesn’t mean God is distant. Often, it means He is closer than you realize, working in places you can’t yet see.

The middle is not the end of the story.

It’s the place where roots grow. Where trust is rebuilt. Where faith becomes less about answers and more about companionship. Where God’s presence stops being a concept and becomes a lifeline.

I don’t know when the nightmares will fade. I don’t know what full healing will look like. But I am learning to believe that even here—even in this—God is with me.