Waiting on the Dawn

There’s a certain kind of loneliness that only shows up at night. Not the kind that comes from being alone — the kind that comes from being scared, exhausted, and trying to hold yourself together until morning.

I’m not sick tonight. Just sleepless. Just awake in a house that’s quiet, with Chuck breathing beside me, safe and warm and right there.

But even now, even on a night like this, I remember the other ones.

The nights when I was so sick I couldn’t lay down. The nights when my body felt like it was betraying me. The nights when I felt completely alone, even with someone I love right next to me.

There’s a loneliness that hits different when the world is asleep. A kind that doesn’t care if you’re married or supported or surrounded by people who love you. It’s the kind that comes from inside your own skin — the kind that whispers, “You’re on your own in this.”

And I know I’m not the only one who’s felt that.

I know there are people out there right now — tonight — staring at the ceiling, waiting for the dawn. People who are sick. People who are scared. People who are grieving. People who are fighting their own bodies. People who feel invisible in their own homes. People who don’t want to wake anyone up because they don’t want to be a burden. People who are just trying to make it to morning.

If that’s you… I see you.

I’ve been you.

And here’s the part I didn’t know back then:

The dawn always comes. Even on the nights that feel endless. Even on the nights that break you open. Even on the nights when you swear you can’t do another hour of it.

You don’t have to be brave all night long. You just have to keep breathing until the sky starts to lighten.

And if you’re reading this in the middle of one of those nights — you’re not as alone as it feels.