How Does Your Good News Looks Like
Good News
If you asked me a month ago what “good news” meant, I would’ve said something simple — a test result coming back clean, a pain-free day, a moment of calm. But lately, good news has become something deeper, quieter. Something that looks more like survival than celebration.
The past two months have been a blur — a blank space filled with flares that felt like fire under my skin. It started when I pushed my body too far, trying to keep up with life while it kept throwing punches. The fatigue hit me like a wave that wouldn’t let up, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find my footing.
Then came the fear. My husband — my best friend, my anchor — was suddenly in the hospital. Two weeks of tests, scans, waiting, hoping. I tried to be strong for him, but inside, I was crumbling. The worry sat heavy in my chest, feeding my pain, making every step feel impossible.
And just when I thought I had reached my breaking point, my brother went missing. Somewhere out there in the middle of the sea. That moment felt like time stopped. My heart dropped into a silence that words can’t describe. Everything around me felt distant — unreal — as if I was watching my life from underwater, unable to scream for help.
My husband was in a hospital bed. My brother was somewhere unknown. I was home, flaring, blistered, feverish — and completely alone. I tried to pray, to breathe, to hold on. But all I could really do was kneel and whisper, “Please.”
When everything is out of your control, prayer becomes your only language.
People say they’ll always be there for you — and maybe they mean it. But when the world caves in, you learn how quiet it gets. You learn who checks in, and who disappears. I don’t hold anger, but I do hold longing. Sometimes, I just wish someone would see me — really see me — and say, “You don’t have to be strong right now. I’ve got you.”
Because even the strongest ones get tired. Even the ones who keep showing up through pain, who keep caring for others while their own bodies are breaking — we need someone, too.
But here’s the strange thing about pain — it teaches you what “good news” really means. It’s not always the big moments. Sometimes, it’s waking up after a night of tears and realizing you survived it. It’s hearing your husband’s voice on the phone, saying he’s coming home soon. It’s a single message from a friend who remembers to ask, “How’s your heart today?”
Good news isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just the whisper that you’re still here, still standing, still holding onto hope — even if it’s only by a thread.
I’m still flaring. I’m still tired. My body still feels like it’s carrying a mountain most days. But even here — in the middle of the mess, in the pain, in the loneliness — I’ve found something sacred: the reminder that even when everything falls apart, I don’t have to.
So tonight, my good news is this:
I made it through another day.
I kept faith alive in the silence.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
To Anyone Who’s Reading This and Fighting Their Own Battle
I see you. I know how heavy it gets. I know the way your body aches and your heart breaks in the same breath. I know what it’s like to feel forgotten — to scream quietly inside while smiling on the outside.
But please, hold on to this truth: you are doing your best, and that’s enough. You don’t have to have all the answers. You don’t have to be unbreakable. Some days, surviving is the victory.
Good news doesn’t always arrive wrapped in joy. Sometimes, it’s simply this — you woke up, you faced another day, and even in your pain, you kept a little piece of hope alive.
That’s not small. That’s everything.
And if no one’s told you lately: I’m proud of you.
👍📰
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