We’ve all heard the phrases.
“Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
“Pain has a purpose.”
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
They sound powerful. Clean. Motivational.
But lingering pain?
Pain that stays for days… weeks…
Pain that doesn’t leave when you pray once or rest one night? That kind of pain isn’t poetic. That pain doesnt have a one liner that can heal it completely.
As I write this, it’s the middle of the night again. This isn’t the first night it has woken me. It’s been lingering — hovering in the background of my days, sitting quietly in my body like an unwelcome guest that refuses to leave.
It flares when I move a certain way. It pulses when I try to rest. It reminds me it’s there when I want to forget it. It just constantly is there causing me to scream on the inside, silently and all at once.
There’s a line in The Fault in Our Stars: “Pain demands to be felt.”
And when pain lingers like this, it demands to be felt over and over again. It doesn’t just knock once. It keeps knocking. And if I’m honest? I don’t always want to answer the door.
Because when pain lingers, it can start to feel like identity.
It can start to whisper, This is your normal now.
It can try to convince you that you are fragile. Limited. Defined by what hurts. But here is the quiet rebellion in my spirit:
I refuse to make it my identity.
I refuse to make it my headline.
I refuse to make it the center of every room I walk into.
I refuse to let most people see it because it is not something that can be healed or fixed in a moment.
The pain has been present for days. Weeks. It has interrupted sleep. It has changed how I sit, how I move, how I breathe some days. And yet — I will not make it a problem in the sense of letting it become the loudest thing about me.
That doesn’t mean I ignore it.
It doesn’t mean I deny it.
It doesn’t mean I don’t seek wisdom or care.
It means I will not let it steal my purpose.
I will still get up.
I will still attend the events.
I will still serve.
I will still create.
I will still be myself.
Some might call that hiding pain. Maybe sometimes it is. Some might calp it denial. Maybe sometimes it is. But more often, it’s discipline. It’s choosing not to let suffering dictate obedience. Because while pain demands to be felt, it does not get to dictate my direction. There is something holy about choosing to move forward while hurting.
Not recklessly.
Not foolishly.
But faithfully.
The Apostle Paul writes about a “thorn in the flesh” — something that lingered, something God did not immediately remove. And the answer he received was not deliverance, but this: “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”
Sufficient.
Not always instant relief.
Not always explanation.
But strength enough for today.
And that is what I cling to.
The Lord does not always remove the pain immediately. Sometimes He strengthens the spine beneath it. Sometimes He builds endurance in the very place that aches. Sometimes He teaches us how to carry what we never would have chosen. Whether it be a physical pain that refuses to leave or a emotional wounds that keeps hurting. There is such a powerful thing we need to reminder is that all pain is valid, but it doesn't have to be the end of the story.
Pain slows me down — and maybe that is mercy.
Pain exposes my limits — and maybe that is protection.
Pain reminds me I am not invincible — and maybe that is wisdom.
Pain awakens me to my weakness - and maybe that is strength.
But it will not be my excuse.
I will not shrink my life to the size of my discomfort.
Yes, pain demands to be felt.
And I feel it — in the quiet, in the dark, in the stillness of 2 a.m. But when morning comes, I demand something too.
I demand to trust that God’s strength is greater than what hurts.
I demand to remember that suffering is not the end of my story.
I demand to live anyway.
Not because I’m fearless.
Not because I’m unaffected.
Not because I'm brave or strong.
But because I know the Lord gives strength to overcome.
The pain may linger.
But so does grace.
And grace has the final word.
