Journal Entry 7.8.25 The Day After
I’ve been reflecting on the weight of what happened yesterday—a hit-and-run fender bender that jolted my body and shocked my heart. Not on just the impact itself, but also the invisible kind—the kind that lingers quietly, waiting to be snapped back to the surface.
The way fear crept back into my mind… adrenaline and anxiety crashing in waves—time standing still in one breath, yet everything around me rushing by far too chaotically.
My body tensed with suspicion at every sound throughout night.
Peace felt just out of reach, even though the doctor said we’re as okay as can be expected.
Which is comforting… and not. Like being told your house is mostly fine after a water leak destroyed your entire bathroom. (Another true story.)
It’s strange how quickly a moment can change you.
One second I’m waiting at a red light, laughing at something someone said in the car.
The next, my day—and the days that follow—are flipped upside down, and my brain doesn’t quite know how to file it away.
Was it minor? Was it major? Was it just another thing?
Or was it the final break, pretending to be just a crack?
The bumper bounced back with just a few scratches. I’d like to know its secret.
I was rear-ended just two weeks ago.
And we’ve had more than our fair share of traumas over the past four years.
None of them life-ending. Certainly by God’s grace alone.
None of them our fault.
But all of them life-interrupting.
Interruptions with whiplash and paperwork. And medical debt- my personal favorite.
At least the car’s holding up better than I am. One less piece of paperwork to worry about.
And those interruptions… they ripple alongside all the ones that came before.
So today, I bring it all to God.
Not neatly or eloquently. But authentically.
(I didn’t even grammar-check the prayer! That’s how real it was.)
“Lord, I’m tired of bracing for impact.
Tired of waiting for the next thing to drop.
Tired of perpetually fighting life.
I want to feel secure again.”
And I believe He met me in that prayer with a whisper of companionship:
“I am always there.”
Even when the hit came.
Even when the driver tried to intimidate me before fleeing in a hurry into traffic.
Even when the tears poured out and our hands shook.
Even through the sleepless nights.
Even when the chaos tried to rewrite our story—
He was there. Quiet, but closer than air.
There’s something humbling about needing comfort more than answers.
About learning that healing isn’t just physical.
It’s emotional. It’s spiritual.
It’s layered—like bruises you didn’t even know were forming.
Like those wrinkled receipts for “emotional support snacks” I find weeks later—quiet proof of something that cost me more than I wanted to give.
So today, I’m asking God not just to heal my body,
but to heal my perspective.
To help me see security not as the absence of danger or fear,
but as the presence of Him.
To start counting the grace inside the accidents more than the accidents themselves.
To meditate on what purpose and goodness can be made from them.
To remember that even when the world feels reckless,
God is still careful with me.
It doesn’t make my days perfect, but it brings them peace.
I’m still sore.
I still wake up with nightmares.
I still scan the rearview like I’m expecting history to repeat itself. At this point, I half-expect to see a bumper with my name on it.
I still question chaotically, nightly,—when the stillness and darkness invite my thoughts to run wild and free—what am I even doing with my life?
Like a mid-forties man in the ‘90s, pacing his kitchen in tube socks, having a full-blown mid-life crisis and convincing himself that an over-priced sports car is the missing piece to make his life feel right.
(I get it now, Steve. I get it. I need a Maserati.)
And I know the fear may linger a little longer than I’d like.
But peace is returning—softly, slowly, like sunlight through fog.
(Or like the tea kicking in fifteen minutes too late but still saving the day.)
And maybe that’s how He works sometimes.
Not in lightning bolts.
But in small jolts of awaking our hearts.
In reminders that whisper louder than the world.
This is how I’ll heal—at least for today:
1. Today, I sit with Him in quiet and I listen.
I go back to the book of wisdom.
I practice the art of releasing what I was never meant to carry.
I let go, piece by piece.
Not because it’s easy…
but because it’s kind.
2. As Dr. Becky Kennedy might say:
“You don’t have to feel better to be doing better.”
Progress isn’t always loud or visible.
Sometimes, healing looks like choosing gentleness over judgment.
Sometimes, it looks like telling myself:
“Of course you feel this way. It makes sense. And you’re still safe now.”
3. I lean on my friends and the wisdom the share:
It was only a week ago that I sat in a circle with friends I cherish and trust—each of us trading ideas, stories, and quiet realizations about what it means to grow through gratitude.
Not performative gratitude.
But the kind that stretches me. Holds me accountable.
The kind that steadies my breath in the middle of chaos.
The kind that doesn’t erase my pain—but walks with it.
I couldn’t have imagined then how much I would need that love to carry me through this week…
and it’s only Tuesday.
Then I’m reminded of the calm I drew from the steadying words of Andrew Bird—how they gave me permission to pause, breathe, and just be.
“Just for now—drop your shoulders, loosen your stomach, relax your eyebrows,
drop your tongue from the roof of your mouth—just for now.
If you’re here, you have time.
We are safe, and we have the ability to sit together.
That’s something to be very grateful for.
Since we have time, take a look around.
Find two things to be grateful for.”
4. I remember what Scripture says:
“Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)
Stillness isn’t passive—it’s powerful.
It’s how we let God do the holding.
When the world feels loud and uncertain, I return to stillness—not to escape it all, but to make room for Him in it.
To forfeit my burdens and let Him carry me through.
Gratitude grows here—from remembering who I belong to.
So I pause, breathe deep, and whisper thanks that words can’t fully express.
Thanks that can only be felt.
Just for now.
And then I’ll do it again tomorrow.
Lord, thank You for protecting us.
Thank You for getting me through what I thought was impossible and unbearable.
For being steady when the world isn’t. For being steady when I am not.
Keep growing my faith in the unseen.
Teach me to live unburdened.
(And maybe help me stop Googling “how much does it cost to move to a secret goat farm in the woods and never drive again.”)
