Abiding in Uncertainty

There was a time—not even that long ago—when we were mapping out a completely different life.

We talked about a cross-country move like it was inevitable. We researched cities, imagined new routines, pictured what it would feel like to start over somewhere and a life full of new possibilities. It felt exciting, expansive—like life was opening up in front of us.

We were moving toward something.

And now, here we are. Still in the same place. Not because we wanted to stay, but because life asked us to pause.

Our plans didn’t fall apart all at once—they slowly unraveled, thread by thread, replaced by hospital visits, uncertainty, and decisions we never expected to face. The dreams we were building didn’t disappear, but they’ve been set gently—sometimes painfully—on hold.

Since December, my husband has been in and out of the hospital and what started as concern quickly became something heavier, something harder to carry.

There was a moment where the words open heart surgery entered the conversation, and everything in me stilled. Time didn’t just slow down—it felt like it stopped altogether.

By the grace of God, that is not the path we ended up taking.

Instead, he had five stents placed—and we know at least one more is still ahead. Even that sentence feels surreal to write. Five.

And as if that wasn’t enough, there is still more waiting for us on the other side of this chapter: thyroid surgery, and the long, uncertain road of waiting for a kidney.

It’s a lot. More than I ever imagined we would be holding all at once.

There is something disorienting about sitting in a hospital room for hours on end, watching the person you’ve chosen to spend your life with be monitored, tested, poked, and evaluated, while your own thoughts run wild. Time moves differently there. It stretches and stalls. Nights feel longer. Silence feels louder.

And yet, somehow, life outside those walls keeps going.

Work still needs to be done. Emails still need to be answered. Deadlines don’t pause for grief or uncertainty.

It’s a quiet kind of responsibility. One that doesn’t always look like anything from the outside, but feels like everything on the inside.

It’s advocating when you’re exhausted.
It’s remembering details when your mind is foggy.
It’s staying strong when the person you love needs you to be.
It’s holding it together in front of them—and sometimes falling apart in the car afterward.

There have been long nights spent in stiff chairs, wrapped in thin blankets that never quite keep out the cold. Nights where sleep comes in fragments, if at all. Nights where prayers feel trivial.

And still—I keep coming back to the word I chose for this year: abide.

At the start of the year, it felt peaceful. Intentional. Almost poetic.

Now, it feels like a lifeline.

To abide is to remain. To stay. To endure without fleeing.

And if I’m being honest, there have been moments where I’ve wanted to do anything but stay. To run from the fear. To escape the unknown. To fast-forward to the part of the story where everything is okay again.

But that’s not what this season is asking of me.

This season is asking me to stay.

To stay present in the uncertainty.
To stay rooted in my faith, even when it feels fragile.
To stay hopeful when outcomes are unclear.

To abide—not just in the easy moments, but in the ones that stretch me thin.

There is grief here too. Not just for what is, but for what isn’t.

For the life we were building in our minds.
For the move we were so sure was coming.
For the version of this year that looked lighter.

Grief doesn’t always come in loud waves. Sometimes it shows up quietly—in the canceled plans, in the photos you didn’t get to take, in the moments you imagined but never got to live.

But even in the midst of all this, there have been small, unexpected mercies.

In the pockets of time between it all—the waiting rooms, the long drives, the rare quiet afternoons—I’ve been trying to be intentional with what’s in front of me. To not let all of this time feel lost to worry.

I’ve been getting outside more. Letting the sun hit my face. Sitting by the lake, or in the grass, just breathing in fresh air and reminding myself that there is still a world beyond hospital walls. That life is still happening, even here.

I’ve been using those moments to create, too—not in a pressured, productive way, but in a way that feels like freedom. Picking up art, writing when I can, letting myself follow whatever creative thread feels like relief that day. Making the most of the time I do have, instead of only mourning what I don’t.

And in a way I didn’t expect, music has met me here too.

With BTS being back, something in me softened. Their music has always carried messages of self-love, intention, and honesty—and hearing them again, feeling that nostalgia, it brought all of those reminders rushing back.

That it’s okay to take up space.
That it’s okay to care for yourself, even in hard seasons.
That being intentional with your time isn’t selfish—it’s necessary.

In the middle of caring for someone else, of showing up day after day, I’ve been reminded that I’m still allowed to find moments for myself too. Small ones. Quiet ones. But meaningful ones all the same.

I’m learning that life doesn’t pause for hardship—it reshapes around it.

And maybe abiding isn’t about having unshakable faith or unwavering strength.

Maybe it’s about choosing, over and over again, to stay.

To stay when it’s hard.
To stay when it’s uncertain.
To stay when the outcome isn’t guaranteed.

To stay and trust that even here, even now, God is present.

I don’t know what the coming months will hold. I don’t know what decisions we’ll have to make or what outcomes we’ll face.

But I do know this:

I am still here.
We are still here.
And somehow, even in the middle of hospital rooms and unanswered questions, so is hope.

So for now, I will abide.