Caitlin

The presence of God is something a person can’t comprehend; it’s something we’re not meant to understand, nor to compare ourselves to. His everlasting and unconditional love, His forgiveness, His sacrifice – and that amongst all of this, He was also human. As human as the rest of us.

Yet despite His humanity, He carried a divinity so gentle and so fierce that it settles in the bones of anyone who seeks Him; a comfort that wraps around the soul even in its darkest hours. His footsteps marked the earth with compassion, His voice soothed the afflicted, and His grace reached further than any human failing ever could.

To stand in the wake of such presence is to recognise how small we are, and yet how deeply cherished - not because we earn it, but because He chooses to love beyond measure, again and again, without hesitation.

As a kid, it always felt like everything was closing in on me, like the air in my own home was too tight to breathe. Anxiety wasn’t just an emotion; it was a constant companion, threaded into every hour of every day. The smell of alcohol hung in the walls, the sharpness of raised voices cut deeper than they ever realised, and the emotional neglect left a kind of emptiness I didn’t have the words for back then.

Home wasn’t a place where I felt safe or seen - it was somewhere I learned to make myself small, to keep quiet, to weather storms I never caused. But school… school became my escape. The moment I stepped through those doors, the pressure eased a little, like I could finally take a full breath. In the classrooms, in the corridors, in the quiet hum of routine, I found pockets of peace that didn’t exist anywhere else. And strangely, beautifully, that’s where I first found my curiosity for God - His presence, His story, His love.

I didn’t fully understand Him, but I felt something steady when everything else around me felt unstable. In lessons, assemblies, and whispered bits of scripture, I found a warmth I wasn’t getting at home. It gave me hope, something to cling to when I felt unseen, a reminder that maybe - just maybe - I wasn’t as alone as I thought.

I remember praying in secret for family members I wasn’t even in contact with, whispering their names into the dark as though maybe God could bridge the distance that none of us could. I craved connection so deeply it felt like an ache under my ribs, a longing to belong to people who felt so far away, even when some of them were only a room over.

And yet I was terrified - terrified of what they’d say if they knew I was reaching out to a God who didn’t exist in their world, a God they mocked or dismissed without a second thought. So I kept it quiet. I prayed in the quiet corners of my day, in the moments when no one was looking, because even if they didn’t believe, I did. Or at least, I wanted to.

I wanted there to be someone who cared enough to listen, someone who could hold the pieces of my heart when family couldn’t or wouldn’t. Those prayers were small, trembling things - half hope, half fear - but they were mine. And in praying for people who barely spoke to me, who didn’t see me, who didn’t understand me, I found a strange kind of peace. It was the only way I knew to keep loving them from a distance, to hold on to the parts of them I still cherished, even when the rest of it hurt too much to face.

As I grew up, I became more and more infatuated with science - the logic, the evidence, the explanations that fit neatly into textbooks and diagrams. I thought I had to choose, that there were only two paths laid out in front of me: believe in God or believe in science, and so I told myself I’d outgrown faith. I denied Him because it felt like the “rational” thing to do, the mature thing, the only thing that made sense in the world I was learning to navigate.

But the truth is, I never once lost that quiet yearning in my chest, that pull toward something greater than myself. Even when I tried to shut it down, it lingered - soft, stubborn, and impossibly steady. No matter how much I immersed myself in facts and theories, there was always a part of me that wondered, that reached, that hoped. A part of me that missed Him, even when I pretended I didn’t.

As logical as I was, I still found myself praying before exams, when I saw an ambulance rush by, and on remembrance days when the world felt heavier than usual. Even when I tried to silence it, that instinct to reach out - to hope someone was listening - never really left me.

At thirteen, I slit my wrists - not out of some grand intention, but because I was curious, because other people my age were doing it, and I was already so lost and burdened that I wondered if it would quiet everything for a moment. My family never listened, never really saw me, and I was drowning in feelings I didn’t have the language for. And for a second, it was… okay. Not good, not right, just quiet.

But then came the sting, the shock, the realisation that I had damaged my own skin, that the pain I’d tried so hard to hide was now visible in a way that felt horrible and shameful. It was the first and only time I ever did that - but the habit of picking at my knuckles never stopped. That small, constant pain became the only outlet I allowed myself, a reminder of how desperately I’d wanted someone, anyone, to notice I was hurting long before I learned how to say it out loud.

At fifteen, I came face to face with a version of myself I could barely stand to look at. I realised how cruel and sadistic I’d become, how casually I picked on people just to feel a little less small, how easily I crumbled under social pressure because I was desperate to belong to anyone, anywhere.

I was unhealthy in every sense of the word - emotionally, mentally, physically - unstable and carrying anxieties that clawed at me day and night. I didn’t understand myself, didn’t understand why I lashed out or why I kept bending into shapes that hurt me just to keep others from turning on me. It was like watching my own reflection twist into something unrecognisable, a person shaped by pain who was now inflicting it, even though deep down I loathed every bit of it.

Fifteen was the age I realised I wasn’t just struggling - I was lost, spiraling, and desperately in need of something to pull me back. And after all of this, I remember - clearer than almost anything else - falling to my knees in my room for the first time since I was six. I was crying so hard I could barely breathe, begging and pleading with God to give me cancer, just so someone might finally care enough to see me, to hold me, to stop for a moment and realise I was hurting.

It was a desperation I didn’t know how to voice any other way, a kind of brokenness that spilled out in heaving sobs instead of sentences. And in that moment, those sobs were enough language for Him to understand. I didn’t need perfect words or polished prayers - just that raw, aching plea from the deepest part of me.

But He didn’t deliver. No. He listened. He came to me through better days, through tiny moments of clarity, through the slow unfurling of self-awareness I didn’t even realise I was growing into. He reached me in the strangest ways - through algorithms that showed me words I needed, through conversations that softened something in me, through the gradual understanding that the life I begged Him to take was the very one He was quietly teaching me to value.

He didn’t fix everything overnight; He didn’t snap His fingers and pull me out of the darkness. Instead, He nudged me forward, gently, persistently, through every lesson, every realisation, every moment that helped me see I was worth more than the pain I had normalised.

He didn’t give me what I asked for - but He gave me what I needed, and that is how I learned He had been listening all along.

At sixteen, I wanted to understand what younger me could never quite figure out - why? Why I’d felt so drawn to Him, why I’d prayed in secret, why that yearning never left, no matter how far I wandered. So I bought a Bible. Just bought one online and gave it a home, like it was something fragile.

I opened it to John first. And as I read, something in me settled - like a weight shifting off my chest after years of carrying it wrong. My heart felt full in a way I’d never experienced before, full of clarity, of warmth, of understanding I had spent my whole childhood searching for without knowing it. For the first time, everything made sense.

There were days when I was absolutely on fire - when faith felt like it burned in my chest, when every word I read and every quiet moment alone made me feel anchored, steady, held. And then there were days of doubt, days when old fears crept back in, when the world felt heavy again, and I questioned everything I thought I knew. But even in those moments, I realised I was more secure than I had ever been in my life. Because doubts didn’t scare me anymore - they didn’t mean I was alone.

I finally knew, deep down, that someone was listening, even when I didn’t have the strength to speak. I didn’t need to perform or be perfect or hide the mess inside me. I didn’t need all the answers. What mattered was that no matter what kind of day I was having - bright, broken, uncertain - there were always arms open for me. A presence that didn’t waver, didn’t judge, didn’t disappear.

For the first time, I had something constant, someone who stayed, and that changed everything. And sure, there are days even now when I break down - full, heaving sobs because people hurt me, because their words cut deep, because sometimes it feels like I’m being stabbed in places I thought had already healed. But I pray. I breathe. I try to rest in His plan, to hand over the things I can’t carry and give them to God.

Trusting Him isn’t always graceful; I still shake in bed, still feel the weight of fear pressing on my chest, still get attacked by the devil in ways that feel relentless. But I’ve learned something vital: the devil wouldn’t be after me if there wasn’t something worth fighting for. If there wasn’t purpose in me, strength in me, light in me. So even in the trembling, even in the hurt, I remind myself that it’s okay. I’m not abandoned. I’m not unprotected. I’m simply being shaped, guided, strengthened - and I’m no longer fighting any of it alone.

So no, God isn’t away from you. Even in the moments when everything feels unbearably heavy, when your chest tightens, and your thoughts spiral, when people fail you and life bruises you in places no one sees - He’s still there. He’s there in the quiet, in the breath you manage to take when you thought you couldn’t, in the strength that rises up in you even after the longest night.

He’s there in the tiny signs, the unexpected comforts, the warmth you can’t explain, and the resilience you don’t give yourself enough credit for. You haven’t fallen too far, you haven’t broken beyond repair, you haven’t disappointed Him by struggling. If anything, your struggle is the very place He draws closer.

You are not abandoned, not overlooked, not wandering alone in the dark. God’s presence doesn’t depend on your perfection - it reaches you exactly where you are, exactly as you are, and holds on. So take heart. You’re still held, still seen, still loved in ways far deeper than you could ever imagine.