(skip to the end for just advice) 

Rejected, yet comforting. The touch of sorrow, the empty promises of dejection; and yet we feel home. Why? The one thing that people say to avoid, to run away from, and yet I feel like I belong. Is it a trap? Am I numb, or is sadness a good thing? Why does my lack of drive, my lack of desire, make me feel so empowered? Why do I feel comfort in my sadness?

And now I’m spinning, my mind moves a mile a minute as I sit at this desk; a black hole for my mind, so empty and so full. What am I thinking? 

I snap back into it. My mind goes blank, the gamma-aminobutyric acid flows through my head… I learned that in this class. Regardless, now I’m not thinking at all, and yet, that feeling of sadness flows through me. I have never so perfectly seen positive and negative coexist.  

Lord I am such a weak little creature, each arm is grasped and being pulled, tearing me apart. I long for happiness but have no desire to get out of this rut of desolation I am in… desolation. It is a part of me… I don’t want to lose “me.” I am jealous. 

Have I been deceived? It’s like sorrow is a snake and it stuck its fangs into me and I have become so used to the pain that it feels comfortable. This snake is now a part of me. This serpent has manipulated me into thinking this is okay, into thinking that this is right. 

Yet, I play it cool. 

Class ends. People get up, friends get together, people start talking. I walk into the hallway, the noise ramps up, people sprint around and the yelling begins. These people without order… no accountability and no regard for others. 

My skin turns red, anger builds up. These people have no idea what some people go through and they take absolutely no time to care. My anger feels good… I need to lash out. My inner being, my pride, calls for people to care. “Look at me! Look at me!” I think to myself… but I’ll never say. I don’t want people to know that I’m in pain, but I want them to care. I want to talk about me. This dichotomy… I don’t want them to know but I want to share? How does this work? Oh Lord I cry. 

Wait… how stupid can I be? What am I sad for? I don’t even know? And yet I’m sad… what? If someone asks, what do I say? Nothing? So I stuff it down. I play it cool.

This 3 minute walk to 4th period turns to 5 which turns to 10. Tunnel vision grows, my head pounds, my mind cries out “something is wrong.”

But I feel. Is this what I yearn for? Feeling? Can I not feel when I’m happy? But, was I happy? No one ever told me with sadness comes anger and confusion. 

And now I’m spinning again. This hallway grows longer, my steps grow shorter, my mind bangs harder. I feel as if there are fists, my brain bangs on the inside of my skull, my heart pounds to break my ribs and to be let out. I collapse. Consciousness fades and I feel myself falling. I thud to the ground. Teachers surround. I am carried to the nurse. 

Muffled noises surround me. People stand over me. 

“He’s waking up!” I hear. A lady. Triumphantly, but crying. My blurry eyes are uncovered and I see her over me, tears dripping onto my shirt. 

Who are you? I fade back into reality. My mom. I am assisted into a wheelchair. They don’t know… didn’t even ask. I’m taken to her car, thoughts rush back into my mind. They don’t care, they don’t care, they don’t care. What worth do I have? The hatred inside me grows, my head still pounding as if my brain is trying to escape a prison. My mind is in prison. My consciousness pangs with the reality of “I am not enough.” Yet it holds me close, like a hug. Not a hug, a nap. It feels like I am laying, wrapped in a blanket. I feel the warmth, like the warmth of when I was a child sleeping with my father. Maybe a hug. 

We drive home. I doze asleep. My mom shakes me to keep me up, fear on her face. She cares. 

We get home. She helps me to the living room. She sits me down. 

“I love you. Please, tell me what is wrong.” 

Finally! My chance to get the attention I want, my chance to get my pain out! I freeze. I stutter. I stop.

“I don’t know.”

“Something is wrong. Tell me.”

“Mom, I don’t know.”

“Talk to me!”

“I don’t know, Mom!” I scream. I let my anger out. I felt good, but I felt sorry. I look down, a tear drips down my cheek. “I’m sorry… I don’t know. I want to tell you but there’s nothing to say, Mom.”

“I’m getting you help. I love you, and this is what’s best.”

That night, I’m put into a therapy program. I meet my therapist right then and we have our first session. I make myself small, I strain myself and confine myself into a tight little bubble. She will not enter my bubble.

…45 minutes go by and she’s in my bubble. This is the first time I’ve truly felt comfort in happiness: she cares. We talk, and we talk, and we talk. We go an hour overtime. She popped my bubble, she ripped the snake out of my arm, she pried the hug off of me. 

I had gotten so used to the pain of this serpent that it became a part of me, it became comfortable. Not only did she remove the snake, she sucked out the venom. I realize, now, my worth as a person. 

I keep coming back. My mind, once being so empty and so dark yet so full of thought, was replaced with light. 

So why was I so comfortable in my sorrow?

It became familiar. It was an emotional landscape I had walked through enough times that, while painful, it’s predictable. Joy and hope felt fragile– they raised expectations, they opened me up to loss– but sadness asks nothing of us except to be still and feel. There was safety in that. When life teaches us that joy can vanish or that good moments are temporary, sadness becomes a home. You know its texture, its weight, its rhythm– and in that way, it’s less frightening than vulnerability or disappointment. There’s something pure about it. In sorrow, the mask drops. It’s a space where we don’t have to perform. You don’t have to prove you’re okay; you just are— raw and real. For me, that was the most genuine state I knew. Sorrow reminded me that we care– that something mattered enough to hurt. That loss, longing, or reflection ties us to what’s most human in us: love, memory, and hope. In a way, sadness is the echo of meaning. My sorrow gave me control, and that control gave me peace. 

How do we get out of our sorrow?

That’s the hard part. Acknowledgement comes first. Don’t shame it. Own it. Recognize why you feel safe there. It loosens its grip.

Invite small moments of aliveness. Not necessarily joy, but aliveness. Talk with the ones who see you, go for a walk without headphones, create something. Just feel alive. 

Let curiosity replace comfort. Ask yourself, “What would it feel like to experience something different– even just for a minute.” 

Redefine peace. If you’ve equated peace with the calmness of sorrow, you must relearn that peace comes with movement, warmth, and connection. That quiet in you doesn’t need to come from sorrow, it can come from safety, faith, or acceptance. 

Don’t do it alone. We often find our way out of sadness through someone else’s light. A friend, a mentor, maybe even Christ. Find someone who stands at the doorway and says “You can step forward, I’ll walk with you.” 

Christ is the embodiment of all of this. Jesus was human, too. He lived (Luke 2:7), he got tired (John 4:6), he was hungry and thirst (Matt 4:2, John 19:28), he felt sorrow (John 11:35, Matt 26:37-38), he felt compassion (Matt 9:35), he felt abandoned (Matt 27:46), he even died. But he defeated death. His death showed that he is fully human. His resurrection shows that he is fully God. He loves you.