When Regret and Loss Keep You Awake: A Raw Reflection

I shared some hard truths in my last post. What I didn’t share was the weight underneath them. This is me trying to be honest about that without turning it into a performance.

I feel like such a loser at times. I feel useless. Self-doubt and self-deprecation creep in more often than I’d care to admit. The part that’s become difficult for me to swallow is that some of this—maybe more than I want to acknowledge—is the result of my own actions.

I mentioned in my last post that I cry myself to sleep at night. That wasn’t a metaphor.

I cry myself to sleep because I am without my children. Because I am alone in ways I never imagined I would be. Because even though my marriage was deeply toxic, I still mourn what I thought it was supposed to be.

I cry because I know I screwed up. I know I caused harm that I can’t undo. I know how easily people reduce me to the worst chapters of my life, and how little room they leave for anything else. I cry because I’m still untangling the trauma of a childhood that never really felt safe, and because I only recently realized how much of that I lost before I ever had a say in it.

I didn’t get the childhood most people my age did. I mourn that. I can’t fix it. What I tried to do instead was give my kids the experiences I wish I’d had. That mattered to me. And now I can’t even do that.

What breaks me most isn’t just the grief—it’s the lack of control. Knowing that no amount of regret, effort, or intention can immediately fix what I’ve broken.

A few months ago, my ex asked about filing for divorce. I’ve put that off. Not because I believe the marriage can be restored—that ship sailed a long time ago—but because I’m not approaching this from a position of strength. I don’t have a place where I can safely and adequately house my kids. I don’t have the income to support them the way I want to right now. The path forward feels murky at best.

I’m starting school in March. From there, I hope to find work in my field. Longer-term, I want a car. I want an apartment that can actually hold me and my kids. I want to be in a position where shared custody isn’t just a hope, but a reasonable reality.

Self-doubt complicates everything. I want to reach out to people. I want to build new friendships. But there’s always a reminder in the back of my mind about my past. I don’t have a criminal record in this country. I have something that’s arguably worse—I have a Google record. That has followed me more than once, and I know it always will to some extent.

I believe God is with me. I say that not because things feel good, but because I don’t know how I would still be standing if He weren’t. Even so, there are days I can’t see Him anywhere in my life.

The Bible doesn’t pretend this tension isn’t real. “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?” David asks in the Psalms. That question feels uncomfortably familiar. Faith, for me right now, isn’t confidence—it’s staying in the conversation even when God feels silent.

Today's scripture comes from Psalms 13:1-2, NLT

“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and every day have sorrow in my heart

I don’t write these things because I’ve figured this out. I write them because telling the truth—carefully, honestly—is the only way I know to keep moving forward. This isn’t the end of the story. It’s just the part where I stop pretending the weight isn’t there.

If any part of this resonates with you, I’d love to hear from you — either in the comments or through the contact form. Your story matters too, and I try to respond personally whenever I can.

If you want more context on what led me here, you can read my previous post, “When Truth Hurts: Crying at Night, Sitting With the Weight”. It dives deeper into the challenges I’ve faced with family, finances, and faith, and it complements the reflections I’ve shared here.

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