The Space Between Trust and Relief: When faith doesn't mean you're not afraid

We were three hours into a twelve-hour roundtrip drive to Georgia when my phone buzzed.

Then buzzed again. Then three more times.

Our realtor. Last-minute requirements for closing. Things that had been known for months but somehow never communicated to us. Things that weren't done. Things that might—once again—mean this wasn't happening.

I stared out the window at the highway blurring past and felt something inside me just... stop. Not panic. Not anger. Just a complete shutdown. A "I have nothing left" kind of empty.

We'd been here before. June turned into July. July fell apart completely. We relisted. We bled money on a mortgage we weren't supposed to still be paying. We adjusted. We hoped. We tried again.

And here we were. Still driving toward a closing that might not happen. Again.

My husband kept driving. I kept staring. And I realized: this is what trauma feels like when it's happening in slow motion.

I'm writing this a few hours before we're supposed to close. For real this time. Maybe. I have deep faith that God will provide—whichever way it goes—He always has. But I also know better than to count chickens before they hatch. I won't breathe easy until the ink is dry and the keys are handed over. Believe me when I say, I pray about this as well. God knows.

And maybe (probably) not even then. This is one of those things that sticks with you long after the “during” has passed.

The "During It" Nobody Talks About

Everyone has advice for "after." How to heal. How to grow. What you'll learn when you look back.

But what about during?

What about when you're still in it—when the bills keep coming, when the deal keeps almost-closing-but-not-quite, when you have to keep showing up to life while feeling like you're barely holding yourself together?

This is what the last four months have felt like:

Months of mortgage payments we weren't planning to pay. Every month watching money drain out of accounts we thought would be replenished by June. Then July. Then August. Then... whenever this actually happens.

A settlement agreement that was wrong. Instead of breaking even or getting (very) little back like we expected, we suddenly owed thousands more. Thousands we didn't have budgeted. Thousands that felt like one more punch when we were already on the ground.

Realtors who knew things for months but never told us. Requirements that should have been handled. Details that fell through cracks we didn't even know existed.

And the mental toll that only a few people close to me have really seen.

I've ignored friends. My own mother, for goodness’ sake! Not because I wanted to, but because I literally couldn't hold one more thing. I couldn't make small talk. I couldn't pretend I was okay. I couldn't be "on" for anyone else when I was barely keeping myself together. I couldn’t process anything beyond what was in front of me right then that MUST be processed. Why am I like this, I’ve asked myself 1,000 times over?

I've had (long) moments where I just shut down completely. Where my brain said "nope, we're done processing this" and I couldn't think, couldn’t talk, couldn't plan, couldn't function beyond the absolute bare minimum.

And I've felt guilty about all of it. Guilty for not being stronger. Guilty for letting this affect me so much. Guilty for stepping away from people who care about me.

Here's what I'm learning: "during it" is UGLY, and that's okay.

You don't have to have it together. You don't have to be inspiring. You don't have to find the lesson yet.

Sometimes survival is enough.

When God Answers in Whispers

I wish I could tell you there was a moment—a clear, unmistakable turning point where I felt God's presence and everything shifted.

But that's not how it happened. For me, it never does. I’ve mentioned it before; I tend to learn things the hard way.

Instead, it's been gradual. Quiet. A slow accumulation of small evidence that He's been here the whole time. As per usual.

Every time I sought God—and I mean really sought Him, not just a desperate "please fix this" prayer but an actual turning toward Him—He answered.

Not always in the way I wanted. Not always with relief or resolution.

But He answered.

An unexpected text from a friend at exactly the moment I was spiraling. The exact encouragement I needed, worded in a way only God could orchestrate.

Opening my Bible to a verse I'd read a hundred times before, but this time it landed differently. This time it felt personal. Written for me, for this moment, for this specific breaking point.

A song on the radio. A conversation overheard. A sudden peace that made no logical sense given the circumstances.

God didn't remove the hard thing. He didn't magically make the house sell in June like we planned. He didn't erase the financial strain or the logistical nightmares.

But He showed up. Over and over. In ways I almost missed because I was looking for the big rescue.

This has strengthened my faith more than any easy answer ever could.

Because now I know (as I always know and never doubt however comma often forget): God isn't just there when things work out. He's there in the middle of it. In the mess. In the waiting. In the "I don't know if I can do this anymore" moments. But man, isn’t that so hard to remember when you’re in the thick of it? Just me?

He's there when I'm three hours into a drive that might be for nothing. He's there when the numbers don't add up and I don't know how we'll make it work. He's there when I can barely pray because I'm too tired, too worn down, too empty.

And somehow…that's enough.

Not because the circumstances changed, but because I'm not alone in them.

What I'm Learning About Grace

If you'd asked me four months ago what grace meant, I would have given you a theological answer. Something about unmerited favor. God's mercy. Forgiveness we don't deserve.

And all of that is absolutely true.

But living through this has taught me something else about grace: it's the space we give each other—AND OURSELVES—to be human in hard things. I've been through hard things before—survived 100% of them so far, technically—but I've never once allowed myself the grace I've allowed this time. I always reserved that for others.

Grace is why I'm so grateful for the friends who've given me space. They've let me pull away without taking it personally. They've checked in without demanding responses. They've loved me through my silence.

Grace is why I'm choosing to forgive the realtors who dropped the ball. Because I don't know what was happening in their lives. I don't know what pressures they were under. I don't know their "during it."

Grace is why I'm learning to stop beating myself up for not handling this better. For shutting down. For ignoring people. For not being stronger or more resilient or more faithful.

Because this: EVERYONE is going through something.

Maybe not a house sale from hell. Maybe not a financial nightmare. But something.

The coworker who's been short with you? Maybe they're three hours into their own impossible drive.

The friend who's been distant? Maybe they're drowning and can't reach out.

The person who snapped at you in the grocery store? Maybe they're holding on by a thread and you just happened to be there when it frayed.

We don't know. We can't know. We're all walking around with invisible burdens, trying to survive our own "during it" seasons.

And if there's one thing I want to remember when this is over—if there's one thing I'm begging myself not to forget when life gets easier again—it's this:

Be patient with people.

Give grace.

Not because they deserve it (grace isn't about deserving). But because you've been there. You know what it's like to barely be holding it together. You know what it's like to need space, to need understanding, to need someone to just... not add one more thing to your plate.

What Actually Helps(?) During "During It"

I'm not through this yet. That’s why I’m writing this. We’re hours away from the supposed-please-oh-please-let-it-happen closing, and this is, quite literally, all I can bring myself to do…write. I'm still in the space between trust and relief, still holding my breath until closing actually happens.

But here's what I've learned helps when you're in the middle of your hard thing:

1. Let yourself step back.

You don't owe everyone your presence. You don't have to keep all the plates spinning. It's okay to ignore texts, skip events, say no to things that would normally be fine but right now feel impossible.

Survival mode isn't failure. It's wisdom.

2. Tell a few people the truth.

Not everyone. You don't need to broadcast your struggle to the world. But find two or three people who can hold it for you. Who won't try to fix it or minimize it or tell you "Everything happens for a reason."

People who will just say "this is really hard" and sit with you in it.

3. Seek God, even when you can barely form words.

My constant prayer for as long as I can remember has been five words from Mark 9:24: "I believe; help my unbelief."

It's the most honest prayer I know. The prayer that says "I trust You, but I'm also terrified. I have faith, but I'm also struggling. I believe You'll provide, but I'm also holding my breath until it actually happens."

God doesn't need your certainty. He doesn't need your eloquent prayers or your theology sorted out.

He just needs you to turn toward Him—even when all you can manage is "I believe... help."

And He hears. Every single time.

4. Don't compare your "during it" to anyone else's.

Someone always has it worse. That doesn't make your thing less hard.

You're allowed to struggle with what you're struggling with. You're allowed to say "this is too much" even when other people have survived worse.

Your pain is valid. Full stop.

5. Remember: this will end.

Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not when you thought it would or how you thought it would.

But it will end.

And when it does, you'll have learned things you couldn't have learned any other way. You'll know God in ways you couldn't have known Him without this. You'll have compassion for others in their hard things that you wouldn't have had before.

None of that makes it worth it right now. I know that. When you're in it, you don't want lessons—you want relief.

But one day, you'll look back and see His hand in it. You'll see how He was there all along. You'll see what He was doing even when it felt like nothing was happening.

The Space We Hold

In a few hours, I'll either be celebrating or devastated. Either way, God will still be God. Either way, He'll still provide. Either way, I'll still have learned what it means to trust Him when nothing feels certain.

But here's what I know right now, sitting in this space between trust and relief:

Faith doesn't mean you're not afraid.

It means you keep moving forward even when you are. It means you seek God even when you can't feel Him. It means you trust He's working even when you can't see it yet.

Grace doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

It means you give yourself—and others—permission to be human in the hurt. To not have it all together. To need time, space, and patience to get through.

And "during it" doesn't last forever.

Even when it feels like it will. Even when you can't see the end. Even when every time you think you're almost there, something else goes wrong.

It will pass. This, too, will pass.

But until it does? Give yourself grace. Seek God in the whispers. Let people love you even when you can't love them back the way you want to. And remember that everyone—everyone—is carrying something you can't see.

So be patient. Be kind. Be gentle.

With others.

And with yourself.

Because we're all just trying to survive our "during it" seasons. We're all just holding our breath, trusting God, and hoping this time—finally—it works out.

And whether it does or doesn't (the way WE planned), we're not alone in it.

God is here. In the mess. In the waiting. In the space between trust and relief.

And that—somehow, miraculously—is enough.

Sunday Reflection: It's Done

We closed.

It's actually, finally, really done.

I've been trying since Friday to process how I feel, and honestly? It's all of it. Relieved. Exhausted. Grateful. Still a little numb. Like my body hasn't quite caught up to the fact that I can stop bracing for the next thing to go wrong.

When I wrote this post on Friday, I was still holding my breath. Still in that space between trust and relief, still whispering "I believe; help my unbelief" and hoping—praying—this time it would actually happen.

And it did.

God was faithful. Again. Just like He's always been—and just like He would have been even if this had fallen through again. Even if the closing hadn't happened. Even if the answer had been different than what I desperately wanted.

His faithfulness isn't dependent on my circumstances working out. It's dependent on His character.

And that doesn't change.

Here's what I'm learning on this side of it: the relief doesn't erase what the waiting taught me.

I'm tempted to let it. I'm tempted to exhale and move on and forget what these last four months felt like. To go back to being impatient with people, to forget what it's like to barely hold it together, to lose the hard-won grace I finally learned to give myself.

But I don't want to forget.

I don't want to forget what it felt like to be in the middle of something impossible. To need space and patience and people who didn't require me to be okay.

I don't want to forget that everyone around me is carrying something I can't see.

I don't want to forget that God answers—not always with relief, not always when we want it, but always with His presence. With the right text at the right time. With verses that land differently. With a peace that makes no sense given the circumstances.

So here's what I'm taking with me:

Grace. For myself and others. Always.

Patience. Because everyone is in their own "during it" season.

Faith that doesn't require certainty. Faith that can hold both "I believe" and "help my unbelief" at the same time.

And gratitude. Deep, bone-tired, overwhelmed gratitude.

Not just that it's over.

But that God was here the whole time. In the mess. In the waiting. In the space between trust and relief.

He didn't leave me there alone.

And He won't leave you alone in yours either.

Whatever you're in the middle of right now—whatever feels impossible, whatever keeps almost-working-but-not-quite, whatever is wearing you down to nothing—He's there.

In the whispers. In the waiting. In the space you're holding your breath.

He's there.

And one day—maybe not today, maybe not when you think—you'll exhale too.

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About the Author
Gal is an autistic artist, late-diagnosed at 49, and the creator of AuRTistic Expressions—a space where neurodivergent truth meets creative survival. Through books, blog posts, printables, and coaching, Gal explores what it means to unmask safely, communicate authentically, and make art that doesn’t ask for permission. Stick around—there’s plenty more where this came from.

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