When Hope Makes the Silence Louder

When Hope Makes the Silence Louder

Author's Note: 

This post is a reflection of where I was emotionally on Christmas Day. It is not written from a place of resolution, but from honesty. If you find yourself resonating with the weight of this, please know you’re not alone—and that silence does not mean the story is over.

Christmas was such a weird day for me.

It’s Christmas Day. I already saw my kids on Monday, yet I can’t shake the depression or how much I miss them. I don’t know how to approach my oldest daughter. Do I send a message? Do I leave her alone? The silence feels unbearable.

This is a stark contrast from last Christmas, which I spent in a dorm of ninety men in a prison in Florida. Back then, I carried a quiet hope. I knew I was getting out soon. There were many unknowns, but I believed things would improve. I had no idea how much upheaval the next year would bring.

Today is different. I am free in some respects, but in others I feel just as confined. I am alone. Full stop.

Throughout the day, I received text messages. I was grateful—people cared enough to reach out. But the absence of certain voices hurt far more than the presence of others helped. I didn’t message my oldest. Fear stopped me—fear of rejection, fear of causing more damage. So I stayed silent.

I was supposed to be making dinner for six people. Originally, it was eight—three of my four kids were coming. That changed when Felicity said she didn’t want to travel that far. She also didn’t want to deal with Ibbie and Zahrah, which, to be fair, do require effort. Still, it was crushing. I am constantly reminded of how little control I have. I feel defeated. I feel stuck, unable to move forward no matter how hard I try.

I made a turkey and a ham. I’d never cooked either before, but I gave it a shot. More firsts. I just wish my kids had been there to see it—to see that I’m adapting, that I’m trying, that I’m not giving up even when it feels like I’m doing this alone.

The house manager had a guest over—one of the employees he supervises. She’s about my age. That stirred complicated feelings. I sometimes catch myself briefly imagining connection, only to shut it down almost immediately. I feel too broken. And there’s the reality of my past.

The idea of dating fills me with anxiety—not because I expect rejection, but because I expect discovery. I imagine someone Googling my name and deciding I’m not worth the risk. That fear convinces me that trying is dangerous, that hope itself might be reckless. So I default to isolation, even when loneliness hurts just as much.

Dinner turned out better than expected. The turkey was moist. The ham cooked in ginger ale was solid. The pull-apart bread was a hit. Wendy’s had donated leftover Caesar salads the night before, which worked perfectly. I even managed a decent gravy. Dessert was an incredible mocha cake. It felt good to have done something well.

After dinner, I did something uncharacteristic. I stepped outside my comfort zone and asked our guest for her number. She gave it to me.

To be clear, I’m not in a position to date. Not even close. But asking mattered. She’s not a coworker, not part of a program or ministry. Not that people with hurts or histories are lesser—but right now, it matters to me to connect outside those familiar circles. The courage it took to ask felt significant. It was a small reclaiming of something I’d lost.

Later, I rode along as the house manager drove her home. Honestly, I needed to get out of the house. I was emotionally overwhelmed. The drive was uneventful. She had work early the next morning.

On the way back, I spoke privately with the manager. I wanted transparency. I told him I’d asked for her number and that she’d given it to me. I wanted him to know I wasn’t crossing boundaries—just reaching for human connection. When I got home, I texted her to thank her for coming and for her patience with my social awkwardness.

I went to bed mostly satisfied with how dinner turned out. But my thoughts kept returning to who I hadn’t heard from. Why does this still hurt so much? Why doesn’t it feel easier?

Scripture gives language to what I don’t know how to resolve:

“Why, Lord, do you reject me
and hide your face from me?”
— Psalm 88:14

I don’t have a clean answer. I thought distance from prison, time away from survival mode, and a few small wins would dull the ache. Instead, it feels sharper. Maybe hope raises the stakes. When you stop merely surviving and start wanting again, the silence cuts deeper.

I showed up today. I cooked a meal I didn’t know how to make. I sat at a table instead of a bunk. I asked for a phone number instead of disappearing into myself. None of it fixed the silence. None of it lifted the weight completely. But it was real. And it was movement.

I’m still here. Still asking. Still trying to believe this story isn’t over—even when the day ends without answers.

If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear from you. You can leave a comment below, subscribe to the blog, or reach out through the Contact Us links found throughout the site. Whether you’re walking through grief, rebuilding after loss, or just trying to make it through another quiet day—your voice matters here.

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