When Rest Becomes Holy
There is a kind of exhaustion that sleep cannot fix.
The kind that settles deep into your bones and follows you from room to room like a shadow you never invited in. The kind that makes getting dressed feel like climbing a mountain and answering a simple text feel overwhelming. Living with autoimmune disease has taught me that fatigue is not just being tired. It is grieving the version of yourself that could once do things without carefully measuring the cost afterward. 🌧️
Some mornings I wake up already exhausted. My body aches before my feet even touch the floor. There are days when my plans sit unfinished, laundry waits patiently in baskets, and I have to choose between making dinner or taking a shower because I simply do not have the strength for both.
And if I am honest, one of the hardest parts is how invisible it all is.
People often see the smile before they see the struggle. They see me sitting quietly, but they do not feel the war happening inside my body. Autoimmune disease can make you feel lonely in ways that are difficult to explain. It teaches you how to mourn privately while still showing up publicly.
But somewhere in the middle of this difficult season, I have also found something unexpected:
God has never once left me in it alone.
On the days when I feel frustrated with my body, He reminds me that I am more than what I can accomplish. When I feel weak, He gently whispers that weakness is not failure. And when I am too exhausted to even pray properly, I remember that God hears even the prayers that arrive as tears.
“My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”2 Corinthians 12:9
That verse has become a lifeline for me.
Because sometimes strength does not look like productivity or pushing through pain. Sometimes strength looks like resting without guilt. Sometimes it looks like trusting God while your body feels fragile. Sometimes it looks like surviving a hard day and believing tomorrow might hold a little more light.
I think about Elijah often. After pouring himself out completely, he collapsed in exhaustion beneath a tree and told God he could not keep going. And God’s response was not anger or disappointment. He let Elijah rest. He fed him. He stayed near him.
That tenderness wrecks me every time.
What a gentle God we serve.
Maybe you are reading this while sitting in a doctor’s office waiting room. Maybe your medicine cabinet is overflowing. Maybe you are tired of explaining your pain to people who do not understand. Or maybe you are simply exhausted from carrying invisible burdens day after day.
Friend, I understand.
And more importantly, God understands too.
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