Living Between the Pain: A Story of Surrender and Hope

For nine years, chronic pain was my constant companion. It wasn’t something I could push through or fix. It owned my mornings, haunted my nights, and quietly shaped every decision in between. It was exhausting, physically, emotionally, spiritually. And worst of all, it was invisible to most people around me.

Eventually, I made the decision to begin regular opioid treatment. Not because I wanted to, but because I needed to. I was tired of surviving on scraps of energy and moments of relief. The medication gave me some quality of life back, enough to be present, to function, to participate in my own life again. But it came with its own weight, its own wrestle.

Then, something began to shift. The pain, which had once been relentless, began to ease. Some days, I could move freely. I could get out of bed without the heaviness. I began to hope again, quietly, cautiously.

But here’s the truth I live with now: while I’m no longer in constant pain, the pain hasn’t left me.

It returns with the smallest amount of activity. A short walk, doing the washing, lifting something light, or even just standing for too long can invite it back. It doesn’t take much. My body still holds its scars. It still demands I move slowly, rest often, and listen carefully.

So I live in between. Between pain and relief. Between caution and courage. Between grief and grace.

And I’m praying every day that God can show me how to live in this in between space. Not just exist in it, but really live. I pray that He can take the pieces of me that have been shaped by suffering and repurpose them into something meaningful. Something kind. Something good.

There’s a strange grief in not knowing what your body will allow from one day to the next. There’s also a quiet kind of hope in learning to surrender it all, plans, pace, pain, and healing, to the One who sees it all clearly.

I don’t have a big recovery story. I don’t have a neat ending. But I have today. And I have faith. And that’s something.

If you’re still in pain, I want you to know this: you’re not broken. You’re not weak. And you are not alone. Whether you’re crawling through the hard days or catching brief moments of ease, your story still matters. Your life still holds purpose. And even here, in the in between, God is working.

Maybe we don’t need to be fully healed to be fully loved. Maybe learning to live gently with pain is a kind of healing too.

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A Prayer

Lord, I don’t always know how to walk this path, especially when the pain returns without warning. But I trust that You see what I cannot. Thank You for the moments of peace, for the strength to keep going, and for the grace to begin again each day. Redirect my path where it needs to go. Help me to rest in Your timing, lean on Your promises, and live gently in the space between brokenness and healing. Amen.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9
Christine Bunn

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