Everyday: Hope Feels Like a Lie Some Days

Everyday: Hope Feels Like a Lie Some Days

3 Part Series        Part 1        Part 2            Part 3

I’ve been sitting with that Buddy Holly song “Everyday,” and honestly, it’s been messing with me. It’s supposed to be this gentle, hopeful tune — but when your life has been burned to the ground and you’re rebuilding with your bare hands, it hits completely differently.

“Everyday, it’s a-gettin’ closer…”

Closer to what?
Healing?
Hope?
Another collapse?
Some days I don’t know. Some days I don’t even care. But the line sticks in my head like a heartbeat I can’t shut off.

People talk about “moving on” like it’s a switch you flip.
My life isn’t a switch. It’s a damn crawl.
It’s waking up every day and trying not to drown in the same thoughts that dragged me under yesterday. It’s pretending the ground I’m standing on isn’t still cracked from the impact of everything that’s happened.

There’s a verse I keep coming back to, even when my faith feels like it’s held together with duct tape:

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning.” — Lamentations 3:22–23

New every morning.
Some days that feels like a lifeline.
Other days it feels like God is giving me a reset button I’m too exhausted to push.
But it’s there. And I guess that counts for something.

I’m still battling depression — the kind that doesn’t announce itself but just slides in quietly and steals the color out of everything. I’m still wrestling with fear, with shame, with the parts of my past that cling like smoke long after the fire’s out. I’m still waking up to silence that feels heavier than noise.

But here’s the thing:
Even in all that, something tiny is shifting.
Not enough to celebrate. Not enough to notice unless I look backwards.
But it’s movement. And maybe movement is the first sign of life.

Healing isn’t poetic.
It’s not cinematic.
It’s not even pretty.

It’s dragging yourself forward when your legs don’t want to work.
It’s arguing with your own brain every morning.
It’s trying to believe that the future isn’t just a repeat of the past.
It’s boring, painful, repetitive, ugly.

And yet… I’m still here.
Every day, somehow, I’m still here.

That simple stupid line from the song keeps echoing:

“Everyday seems a little longer…”

Yeah. No kidding. Some days feel like entire years packed into twenty-four hours. But maybe longer isn’t always bad. Maybe it means I’m actually living through the days instead of just surviving them.

Maybe that’s the quiet lesson in all this:
Progress doesn’t feel like progress when you’re inside it.
Some storms don’t end with sunshine — they just fade slowly until you look up one day and realize you can breathe again.

So yeah.
Every day, I’m still trying.
Every day, I’m still crawling forward, even if it’s an inch at a time.
Every day, mercy shows up again, even when I don’t feel worthy of it.

It isn’t pretty.
It isn’t dramatic.
But it’s happening.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s the whole point.

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