I Lost My Job, My Health, and Almost My Faith — Here’s What Got Me Through

It was a Tuesday afternoon when the email came. Three sentences. My position had been eliminated.

I stared at the screen for what felt like an hour. Five years at that company. Five years of early mornings, late nights, skipping lunch to meet deadlines. And now, nothing.

Three months later, the doctor called with the test results. “We need to talk about what we found.”

That was the year my world crumbled. Not slowly, like sand slipping through fingers. It shattered—all at once, in pieces too small to pick up.

If you’re reading this and your own world feels like it’s falling apart, I want you to know something: I’m not writing this from the other side because I’m stronger or holier than you. I’m writing it because I almost didn’t make it. And if I can, you can too.

The Silence That Scared Me Most

When the job disappeared, I prayed. When the diagnosis came, I prayed harder. I spent hours on my knees, begging God for answers, for healing, for a way out.

And then—silence.

Not the peaceful kind. The kind that makes you wonder if anyone’s listening. The kind that makes you question every sermon you’ve ever heard about God’s faithfulness.

I remember lying awake at 3 AM, staring at the ceiling, whispering, “God, are You even there?”

Maybe you’ve been there too. Maybe you’re there right now.

Here’s what I learned: God’s silence is not His absence. I had confused His timing with His indifference. He wasn’t ignoring me—He was preparing me.

One Card, One Verse

A friend—the kind who doesn’t offer platitudes but shows up with groceries and sits with you in the dark—gave me a small card one afternoon. On it was written:

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

I taped that card to my bathroom mirror. Some days, it was the only thing I could read without crying. Other days, I read it through tears.

But slowly, something shifted. Not my circumstances—those got worse before they got better. My perspective.

I started keeping a small notebook by my bed. Every night, before I tried to sleep, I wrote down one thing—just one—that I was grateful for. Some nights it was as simple as “the sun came out today” or “the coffee was hot.”

It felt silly at first. Performative. But gratitude, I discovered, is like a muscle. The more you exercise it, the stronger it grows.

What Actually Helped

If you’re in a hard season right now, let me share what carried me through. These aren’t theoretical suggestions—they’re the actual practices that kept me going:

1. Give Yourself Permission to Not Be Okay

Christians aren’t supposed to have it all together. We’re supposed to have a Savior who meets us in our mess. Let yourself grieve. Let yourself be angry. God can handle your honest emotions—He gave them to you.

2. Find Your “One Verse”

Stop trying to read the entire Bible right now. Find one verse that speaks to your situation and hold onto it like a lifeline. Write it down. Memorize it. Say it out loud when the fear creeps in.

3. Let People Help You

This was the hardest one for me. I didn’t want to be a burden. But when I finally let my church community know what was happening, they showed up in ways I never expected—meals, prayers, an anonymous gift card in the mail.

The body of Christ isn’t a metaphor. It’s real. And when one part suffers, we’re supposed to suffer together.

4. Create Small Rituals of Hope

For me, it was that nightly gratitude notebook and a cup of tea while I read one Psalm before bed. For you, it might be a morning walk while listening to worship music, or lighting a candle during prayer time.

These small rituals become anchors. When everything else is chaos, they remind you that God is still present in the ordinary moments.

Where I Am Now

I won’t tell you that everything worked out perfectly. Some prayers weren’t answered the way I wanted. Some losses left scars that will always be there.

But I’m still here. And my faith—though battered and bruised—is stronger now than it was before. Not because I understood God’s plan, but because I learned that He is faithful even when I don’t understand.

If you’re walking through your own valley right now, please don’t give up. The Psalmist wrote, “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.”

The night might feel long. But the morning will come.

And until it does, know this: you are not alone. You are not forgotten. And the God who saw you through every hard day so far is not about to abandon you now.

If this resonated with you, and you’re looking for a way to start processing your own story—with Scripture, with a pen, in the quiet—there are a couple of resources I wish I’d had back then. Our 30-Day Prayer Journal walks you through a month of guided prayer and reflection. And the Faith Over Fear Workbook is built for exactly the kind of wrestling I’ve described here.

They’re not formulas. Just tools. Like that card taped to the bathroom mirror.

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