In Case You’re Sitting in the Dark…

It’s been a day, friends. It’s been a… day. A good day. A long day. A quiet day. A loud one. My babies are all asleep now, and it’s dark outside, after midnight. Deep dark; the kind that beckons me to reflect and to be content and to listen to the silence and also to panic because, GAH! IT’S DARK, and I forget sometimes in the deep dark that dawn is coming.

Here’s a list of the things I’m behind on doing:

2. Everything Else

And it’s dark, so IT’S TIME TO PANIC about All the Things left undone.

That’s OK, though, because I know this finally: I am not alone in the dark. I’m not. And you aren’t, either. We’re here together — we’re behind on All the Things, yes — but we are here, in this Murky Life, waiting for the dawn together, which looks a lot like Love.

We’re waiting for the dawn together, momrades (and dad-rads, and human-rads). We’re waiting for the dawn together, and we irrationally believe it’s coming just because it always does.

Many of us, anyway. Many of us stubbornly believe dawn is coming. Just around the corner. Breaking on the horizon. Good things on the way. Aslan on the move.

Let’s be honest, though; there are people waiting in the dark with us who’ve given up on the Light. Who’ve given up on dawn’s arrival. They are sitting in the dark with us, and they have given up. They are tired. They are spent. They have kept the vigil, waiting for the dawn and for Love to Win, and both are taking way too long.

These are the mamas and the dads who are up long nights with the babies who never sleep.

They’re the parents who’ve worked and worked (and worked and worked) to make a better life for their kids and got laid off anyway.

They’re the friend who fought cancer and beat the SNOT out of it and just found out it’s back.

The sister who lost her brother to that horrible accident.

The one who loved and lost and is pretty sure it’s better not to have loved at all, no matter what they say. 

The ones who’ve been hurt.

The ones who’ve been wrecked.

The ones who feel alone or afraid or unsure of their welcome.

The ones who know the Deep Dark.  

And I don’t mean to tell you how to feel about all these people sitting near us in the dark, mucking up our cheerful wait-in-the-darkness vibe and putting a real downer on our ridiculous, resilient hope, but here’s how we feel about the people who’ve lost faith that dawn is coming: we love them, friends.

We love them.

We sit in the dark next to them, and we listen, and we love, and we keep doing those things even after we realize none of those things — not one — can force our friends into a blissful state of optimistic expectation or anticipatory hope.

I know what you’re thinking if you have small control issues like me; WHAT’S THE POINT OF ALL THE SITTING and LISTENING and LOVING IF WE CAN’T FORCE CHANGE? I mean, LET’S MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE, ALREADY. CHINS UP, EVERYONE. And I feel your pain here; I do.

But the truth is, we sit and listen and love them because there are times in all our lives when we just can’t stand Stupid Hope anymore. We can’t stand to wait for the dawn. We can’t stand to believe Love and Light are on the way

I don’t have a cute ending here or a neat way to wrap this up. I’m just sitting here in the dark tonight with the rest of you, waiting on the dawn. But I guess I want you to know, if you’re in the Deep Dark right now, and you’re tired of waiting on Hope — it’s OK. It’s OK. It’s OK and you’re OK. It’s OK to lay down for a minute. It’s OK to rest here. We can keep vigil for you for a while. We can take the next watch. 

And know this: whether or not you believe the Light is coming, you have friends here in the dark.

Waving in the Dark to You… and reaching out a hand to hold,





P.S. The dawn is coming.


Don’t miss a post. Subscribe here

18 responses to “In Case You’re Sitting in the Dark…”

  1. Thank you so much, I needed this more than you could know. I’ve been going through a bout of depression this week, up every night feeling alone and sad. I have bipolar disorder and I know this mood will pass but it’s never easy. It’s always REALLY HARD actually, but this. This little blog made me feel not so alone tonight. Bless you.

  2. With tears falling, this really hit home for me. You are so inspiring and everything you write is absolutely amazing! Love you so much!!!!

  3. I’ve been there lately. I sat on the couch and told the kids to figure out homework for themselves. I wish I didn’t have to get out if bed, although I still function once I do. I wrote about it today. That’s progress. I read your post early in my day and felt so much better knowing I am not alone.

    Thank you.

  4. I’ve been in the deep dark, and really, all you want is someone to sit with you, to keep vigil. I’m no longer there, or at least not there right now, but my heart aches, and sits, with those who are.

  5. Beth, that is just what I needed. I’ve forwarded it to the head teacher of my kids’ school too, because he really needs to know that too tonight, as he panics about All The Stuff.
    Thank you

  6. Thank you. I hate the dark, yet the dawn isn’t any better… I just go from day to day, trying to get through..

  7. Thank you. I am that cancer patient, recovering from surgery, in pain, dreading those next steps where I knowingly poison myself to ensure I that I am here for a lifetime of nights. The deep dark was very dark last night, so it is nice to know that someone else is out there too. Your posts often inspire me, make me laugh, force me to admit that I am not a perfect mom or wife or daughter or friend and be okay with that. This post truly spoke to my heart, so thank you.

  8. Thank you Beth. I am drowning in the dark. drowning. This helped a little. Reality tells me there is a dawn but sometimes its just so hard to believe. Awesome family and friends tell me there is a dawn but right now it is soo soo hard to belive. On January 12 my husband of 15 years, my soul mate, my fairytale died very suddenly and unexpectedly. He left me here with life and our seven year old daughter. And although we are making it through the days all I really want to do is drown in the dark. Thank you for reminding me the dawn is out there somewhere.

    • Jenny,
      We dont know each other but i wanted to say that i am deeply sorry for your sudden and unexpected loss. If i can listen or be there for you in anyway, please reach out.

      sending a hug.

    • I know exactly where you are coming from, as my hubby very suddenly died in early December, leaving behind a teenage step son, a young toddler and infant. There are days and nights that are so hard to get through, then other days that it doesn’t hit me until I’m on my way home that he isn’t going to call when he gets off work. The shock has worn off and I’m no longer running on adrenaline. Sleep is sketchy at best, concentrating while at work is near impossible and I’m impatient with the kids, family and friends. Everyone says it will get better, but for now, I’m just trying to adjust to a new normal for our lives.
      I continue to go on because I don’t have a choice and my kids deserve that.

      I wish peace for your heart and soul. Make sure that you are taking care of yourself as much as possible and reach out to people that truly have you and your childs best interests in mind.

  9. Thank you, Beth. So needed to be reminded of this, when dawn feels like it will never come. Waiting here in the dark, waving, waiting for a glimmer.

  10. Damnit, Beth, do you have to make me cry like that?

    No, it’s a good cry. You got my back, I got yours. That way we don’t have to sleep with our heads in the mud.

    Thank you.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.