My Gethsemane Year

 If I could name this year, I would call it my Gethsemane year.

At the beginning of this year, I thought I was losing my mind. Truly, There were days I would wake up and feel like I was walking through fog, surrounded by people, conversations, routines, and yet, completely detached from it all. I could laugh, I could talk, I could show up, but inside I felt empty. And that emptiness terrified me.

It wasn’t a loud pain, It was quiet, the kind that sits deep in your chest and refuses to leave. There were nights when I would lie awake, unable to find words for what I was feeling. I just knew that something in me was collapsing, the certainty, the strength, the “I’m okay” mask I had worn for so long.

It’s strange how loneliness can exist even when you are surrounded by love. I wasn’t alone in the physical sense, I had people, I had moments, I had noise around me but none of it reached me. I felt like I was watching life through glass: close enough to see it, too far to touch it.

And then came the questions, heavy ones. About purpose, about identity, about whether I still had the capacity to keep walking in this world, to keep giving what life seemed to demand. I didn’t feel strong enough to exist in a world that moves so fast, that expects so much. I didn’t have the strength to keep pretending I was okay, or to keep showing up for things that made me feel unseen.

Somewhere along the way, I started seeing sides of myself I never wanted to face, pride that disguised itself as control, fear that looked like caution, and pain that hid behind silence. The more I discovered, the less I recognized myself. There were days I wanted to escape everything, and days I just wanted to rest without having to explain why I was so tired.

That was my Gethsemane, the place of pressure, of surrender, of deep wrestling.

And yet, in that same place of breaking, I met God in ways I never had before.

He wasn’t the God of quick rescues. He wasn’t the God who made the pain disappear overnight.

He was the God who stayed.

He stayed when I couldn’t pray.

He stayed when I doubted everything.

He stayed when all I had left was tears.

Those months taught me to sit with my pain and still believe that something holy was happening, even when I couldn’t name it.

And then came October.

Suddenly, everything began to shift.

I can’t even explain how quickly things started to unfold, almost as if everything I had prayed for in silence was quietly waiting for me to arrive. It felt like stepping into a room I didn’t know existed, but somehow, everything I needed was already there. Doors opened, clarity came and peace returned.

What amazed me most was how God orchestrated everything, the timing, the people, the opportunities, the healing….all of it made sense in a way it never could have if I hadn’t gone through the valley first.

That’s when I understood: resurrection doesn’t just mean things getting better. It means you becoming new. It’s when everything that had to die, the fear, the striving, the pretending, finally makes room for what was meant to live.

This year was not easy. It demanded surrender when all I wanted was control. It demanded faith when I felt faithless. It demanded silence when I wanted answers.

But now, standing here, I can see the thread of grace running through it all. I can see that every tear, every delay, every night I thought I wouldn’t make it, God was there, not punishing me, but preparing me.

So yes, this was my Gethsemane year.

The year I sat with my sorrow and met peace anyway.

The year I wrestled with God and realized He wasn’t fighting me, He was holding me.

The year I thought I was dying, but in truth, I was being remade.

And now, as I stand on this side of it, I can only whisper:

Thank You for not letting me skip the valley.

Thank You for letting me meet You there.

Thank You for staying, until I could finally see that I never walked alone.