The Alleluia of the Dark

Finding quiet grace, small mercies, and unexpected growth in a season of darkness

Darkness deserves gratitude. It is the alleluia point at which we learn to understand that all growth does not take place in the sunlight. - Joan Chittister

Normally, I wouldn’t think of darkness as something to be grateful for. Darkness, for me, is often linked to heartbreak, waiting, and the anxiety of not knowing how things will turn out. Light feels easier. Light shows the way forward. Darkness feels like being held in a place you never chose, with no clear sense of when or if things will change.

Raw Pixel

It has been an especially hard and dark season watching my significant other suffer. There are moments when I feel utterly powerless, unable to heal his pain or ease his struggle. All I can do is show up, listen, and try to hold space, while quietly wishing for a miracle.

Being a caregiver drains me in ways that go far beyond physical tiredness. I live in a state of constant vigilance, moving between worry and hope, and I grow weary from continuing on when answers remain elusive. The tempo of my life has shifted. I feel hyper-aware of everything. My energy runs low. Everything feels tender, stretched, and fragile

When Showing Up Is Enough

There are days when all I can do is sit quietly and breathe. Days when simply showing up feels like the only possible response. Days when the darkness feels endless and I can’t see what any of this is leading toward.

And yet, even here, something is changing.

What the Darkness Is Teaching Me

My need to control is slowly easing. I feel more empathy than before, and my idea of strength is changing. I’m learning that love isn’t always about doing or fixing things. Sometimes love is simply being there, bearing witness.

When I ask myself what is saving me right now, the answers are small and ordinary - but deeply sustaining.

Practices That Are Holding Me

Authenticity (my theme for this month)is saving me. Throughout March, I’ve tried to live in alignment with what feels true - in my words, my decisions, and my actions. It feels grounding to stop pretending to be strong and choose honesty instead.

Reflection is saving me too. Lent has slowed me down enough to notice what’s really happening inside me. I’m learning to stay with discomfort and accept an incomplete faith. Reflection doesn’t fix things, it just makes me slow down and rethink my daily choices. I shared more about this in my post on the Lenten resources I’m loving this year.

Photo by Prophsee Journals on Unsplash

Gratitude journaling is saving me. One entry a day. Three things I’m grateful for. Writing it down reminds me that even in the dark, I have so much to be grateful for.

Good conversations are saving me as well. People to who I can speak freely and admit I’m tired and unsure. Being listened to brings comfort, laughter and food for thought. Conversations with José and friends have made me think deeply and even led to my reflections on eulogies.

Reading is saving me. Books keep me company when my thoughts feel heavy . Right now, I’m listening to Counterweights: An Essential Practice for Holding Hope in a Heavy World by Shannan Martin , and it feels perfectly suited to these uncertain times.

Writing for Guidance, a practice I’ve learned recently, is also sustaining me. Writing not to produce or explain, but to understand. I shared more about this practice on my blog.

The Alleluia Point

The light hasn’t fully returned for me. It comes in small, quiet moments—a pause, a little more space to breathe. Nothing is fixed, but something is still growing in me: gentler strength, deeper compassion, and a faith that doesn’t need quick answers.

I’m beginning to understand what Chittister calls the alleluia point—the moment I realise the darkness isn’t empty. Gratitude here isn’t happiness or answers, but noticing the small, meaningful ways I’m still finding light.

How has your March been? And what has it taught you?