Ever since I shared my depressive thoughts, I thought that I will be free and will now be better at recuperating from my feelings. But sometimes, the blues just won’t let go. As for happiness, I am happy, I have a liveable life, I can cope with almost everything. Unfortunately, the gloomy days have kept on coming and I really am eager to see the sun. If before I associated rainy days with stay-at-home activities, warm cups of chocolate, and unlimited pancit canton, they just remind me now of the gloom they bring.
Thankfully, the church my wife and I listen to messages from having been discussing the whole book of Romans for this year. I tend to read back a few chapters during sermons and I read Paul’s lines in Romans 7. The 15th verse struck me the most:
I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. – Romans 7:15 (NIV)
I can really relate to this line from Paul’s letter to the Romans as this was my lingering feeling for the past few years. I may have a thing to count as my goal but for many years, I have never understood fully everything that has been happening in my life. You might argue that what Paul is saying in this passage is more of his sinful nature but I do get that and I know where I am going.
Not Understanding the Things in my Life
I used to think that life followed a pattern.
Study hard. Pray faithfully. Help others. Avoid the “bad stuff.” And everything would make sense eventually.
But that’s not what happened.
I was doing all the right things, or at least trying to. I graduated. I passed difficult exams. I tried to serve. I got married. I prayed when I remembered to. I even shared parts of my pain when it felt safe. Yet, I still found myself spiraling sometimes—angry at nothing, tired from everything, scared of the next day. Even the good ones.
It’s hard to explain this feeling to someone who hasn’t gone through it. On paper, everything is fine. Better than fine, even. But emotionally? Spiritually? I still felt lost. Like there’s this wall between what I know is good and what I actually end up doing, choosing, or feeling.
I remember mornings when I’d wake up and immediately wish I hadn’t. No clear reason. No big fight the night before. No tragic news. Just… nothingness. And that’s the scariest part. The nothingness. The quiet of depression isn’t always screaming thoughts or panic. Sometimes it’s just the absence of anything hopeful. You sit there wondering, “Why do I feel like this again?”
There’s also the guilt. So much guilt.
How can I say I trust God and still feel this hopeless? How can I say I’m grateful for my life while wishing I could sleep through half of it? How can I be loved by others and still not love myself?
It’s not just sadness. It’s confusion. Exhaustion. And shame.
Which brings me back to that line:
“I do not understand what I do.”
Because, honestly, I don’t.
I don’t understand why I stop doing things that once brought me peace. Why I ignore people who care about me. Why I punish myself mentally for mistakes long forgiven. Why I run toward old habits and leave healing ones behind. I don’t understand why I can believe in mercy and still think I deserve pain.
There were days I’d force myself to take walks just so I’d feel something. I’d visit grocery stores and pretend I was someone with a goal for the day. I’d sit in coffee shops and read like I wasn’t breaking inside. These rituals helped a little, but not always. They weren’t magic.
And so, I’d fall again.
I guess this is why I appreciate the honesty in Paul’s writing. He wasn’t trying to sound perfect. He was acknowledging a war inside him. And maybe you have that war, too.
The part of you that wants peace—and the part that sabotages it.
The part of you that wants connection—and the part that isolates.
The part of you that wants to live—and the part that only wants to disappear.
Faith doesn’t erase that struggle.
If anything, it reveals it.
Because once you start hoping again, once you believe that healing is possible, the tension becomes more obvious. You start noticing every misstep, every relapse, every time you didn’t follow through. You see how far you still are from where you want to be.
And you start to wonder if you’ll ever get there.
The War Within
I wish more people talked about this.
The war. The gap between knowing and doing. Believing and becoming.
When I hear sermons about victory or see Christian content online that’s all about “living in freedom,” I wonder—what about those of us who are still stuck in the middle? Not quite free. Not quite lost. Just in-between. Still fighting.
Romans 7 doesn’t end with that one verse. Paul keeps going. In verse 19, he writes:
“For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.”
That sounds dramatic. But if you sit with it, it’s painfully familiar.
It’s the feeling of deleting your Bible app after a week of ignoring it.
Of staying silent when you know you should ask for help.
Of replaying negative thoughts on a loop because you’ve somehow convinced yourself that pain is more honest than joy.
And then verse 24 says:
“What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death?”
Paul wasn’t just reflecting. He was crying out.
Some people read that and think he’s being theological—making a point about sin and salvation. But I think it’s more than that. It sounds like despair. Like exhaustion. Like someone who has tried everything and still feels like a failure.
That hits close to home.
Because I’ve asked myself the same question, in less poetic words:
“Will I ever get out of this?”
Sometimes the weight feels spiritual. Like I’m being punished for sins I forgot to confess. Other times, it feels psychological. Maybe I’m just wired wrong, or I didn’t heal enough, or I’m weak. And then there’s the physical part—when my body feels heavy, even if I’ve done nothing all day.
I’ve been told to “claim the victory,” to “declare healing,” to “speak life.” I’ve also been told to get more sun, drink more water, move more, rest more. The advice ranges from the biblical to the biological. I know people mean well. And sometimes, it helps. A bit.
But this war inside me isn’t always something I can win in a day.
There are days I want to pray, and all I can say is, “God, I’m still here.”
There are days I read Scripture and the words don’t feel alive.
There are days I sing worship songs and feel fake.
But I sing anyway.
I show up anyway.
I stay alive anyway.
And maybe that’s the real fight.
Not winning every battle, but staying in the war.
Paul’s next words give me a strange comfort:
“Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Romans 7:25)
That’s how he ends the chapter. Not with his strength. Not with a to-do list. But with a name.
Jesus.
I don’t always know how to reach Him when I’m hurting.
But He has reached me. In silence. In verses I don’t fully understand. In people who check in on me. In moments when I thought I’d fall apart but somehow didn’t.
He meets me where I am—even if where I am is stuck.
What Healing Looks Like Now
I used to think healing meant “feeling better.”
Like there would be a day I’d wake up and just know the darkness was gone. No more heaviness. No more breakdowns. No more questioning every decision or crying over things I couldn’t explain.
That day hasn’t come.
But something else has.
A little more honesty. A little less shame.
And strangely enough, more silence. But the kind that’s no longer hollow.
Healing now looks more like habits than miracles.
It’s making the bed, even when I don’t want to.
It’s washing the dishes right after dinner.
It’s taking deep breaths while waiting for water to boil.
It’s brushing my teeth when my brain says, “What’s the point?”
They’re small things. Things I used to skip. But they anchor me now.
Faith helps—but not in the loud, performative way I once thought it should. I no longer pressure myself to be “on fire” all the time. I no longer feel guilty for asking questions or admitting I don’t feel close to God today.
Instead, I’ve learned to treat faith like a rhythm. Like breathing.
Inhale: Read one verse.
Exhale: Sit with it.
Inhale: Say a short prayer.
Exhale: Let silence follow.
I still have flare-ups. Days when I scroll mindlessly to numb myself. Days when I avoid messages. Days when I lie in bed too long and spiral into “What am I doing with my life?” territory.
But I recover faster now.
Not because I’m stronger. But because I’ve stopped pretending I’m not weak.
I say no to things I can’t handle.
I take breaks from social media without needing to announce it.
And sometimes, I just cry.
I don’t always know why I’m crying.
Sometimes I cry because the sky is beautiful, and I feel guilty for not enjoying it more.
Sometimes it’s because I saw a verse online and suddenly remembered I’m still loved.
Sometimes it’s because I feel nothing—and the absence aches.
But I don’t shame myself for it anymore.
I think that’s where Romans 8 begins to matter.
After all the tension in chapter 7, Paul opens the next part with this:
“Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:1)
No condemnation.
Even for those who still feel broken. Even for those who haven’t “moved on.” Even for those who keep repeating what they promised not to do. Even for me.
That changes everything.
Not because I now have permission to stay stuck, but because I have permission to stop beating myself up while I figure things out.
Healing, for me, is learning how to be kind to myself while I wait for better days.
It’s saying, “That’s enough for today” and believing it.
It’s not waiting to feel okay before doing the next right thing.
It’s letting the Spirit pray for me when I run out of words (Romans 8:26).
When Grace Finally Made Sense
I used to hear preachers say that grace is “undeserved favor.”
I nodded. Took notes. Quoted it on my old social media bios.
But I didn’t understand it.
Not until I had nothing left to offer. Not until I broke the same promise for the fifth time. Not until I stared at my Bible and felt more ashamed than comforted.
Grace didn’t hit me when I was doing well.
It showed up when I was doing everything wrong.
When I skipped prayers for weeks. When I told God I didn’t feel like believing that day. When I turned off the worship music because it made me feel like a fraud. When I cried in the shower not because I was repentant, but because I was tired of feeling like I had to be.
Grace didn’t slap me into shape. It sat beside me. Waited with me.
And slowly, it started to change me.
Not because I feared punishment—but because I started to believe I wasn’t abandoned. That maybe, just maybe, I was still held.
It’s weird how suffering can open you up to truths that never landed before.
I’d read Romans before. Probably dozens of times. But now? It reads different. It reads like someone writing to people like me. The ones who still wrestle, still relapse, still come to God with their heads down.
And this new understanding of grace—it makes me softer.
Softer toward others who mess up. Softer toward friends who don’t reply right away. Softer toward people who say the wrong things. Softer toward myself when I’m not who I want to be.
It also made me realize how long I lived in fear.
Fear of not being “spiritual” enough. Fear of failing people. Fear of wasting my life. Fear of losing the light I used to have. Fear of God being disappointed in me.
But I think grace says, “You’re already known. And still loved.”
I don’t say that lightly. Some days I still find it hard to believe.
But when I do believe it—even for a second—it lifts something heavy off my chest.
If You’re In That Place Too
Maybe you’ve felt the same things.
Maybe you’re in that quiet in-between where you’re not in crisis, but you’re not okay either. Maybe you still wake up with dread. Maybe you’ve lost the joy you used to feel in worship. Maybe you haven’t opened your Bible in months. Maybe you feel guilty for feeling guilty.
If that’s you, I don’t have a formula. I don’t have a healing schedule. But I do have this:
You are not your performance.
You are not your worst day.
You are not disqualified from grace just because you feel numb.
You’re not failing as a Christian because you’re struggling with depression.
I know that line sounds like it came from a mental health campaign poster, but please believe me: you can be broken and loved at the same time.
Paul wrote some of the most quoted verses in Scripture, and even he said, “I do not do what I want to do.” That should tell us something.
Struggle isn’t the absence of faith. Sometimes it’s the proof of it.
It means you’re still trying. Still hoping. Still here.
And that’s enough for now.
Still Here, Still Held
I don’t know what tomorrow will feel like.
I’ve stopped expecting clear skies. I’ve also stopped fearing the storm. Some days are blue. Some are gray. Some are both.
But I’ve come to see that being human—especially being a Christian human—is not about constant victory. It’s about returning.
Returning to God when I’ve drifted.
Returning to prayer even when it feels hollow.
Returning to grace even when shame feels louder.
Returning to the truth that I’m still His, even when I don’t act like it.
That’s what Romans 7 has taught me.
That it’s okay not to understand everything.
That it’s okay to live in tension.
That even when I do what I hate, God doesn’t hate me.
The symbol I hold onto now is a thread.
A single, thin, fraying thread.
Because sometimes that’s what faith feels like. Not a rope. Not a chain. Not a mighty anchor. Just a thread. Barely enough to feel. But enough to hold me.
And enough, it seems, for God to work with.
He never asked me to be perfect. Just to stay tethered.
Even if it’s by a thread.
A Prayer for the Threadbare
If you’re reading this and feel like you’re unraveling—
this prayer is for you.
Lord, I don’t always understand what I do.
I want to hope, but I fall into fear.
I want to rest, but I chase restlessness.
I want to believe, but sometimes I only manage to survive.
Thank You for not giving up on me.
Thank You for meeting me in this mess.
Thank You that grace is still mine even when joy isn’t.
Teach me to return.
To return without shame.
To return even if I can’t bring words.
To return just as I am—tired, unsure, but here.
Remind me that You’re not in love with my potential.
You love me now.
Not when I’m fixed. Not when I’m faithful. But now.
Stay close.
Keep holding the thread.
And I’ll keep trying to hold on, too.
Amen.
You might not be okay yet. But you are not alone.
Not in this struggle. Not in this strange, unfinished faith.
Not in the war within you.
If Paul could name it, so can you.
If grace could reach him, it can reach you.
And when the rain comes again—and it probably will—
remember: there’s still a thread. There’s still a verse. There’s still a reason to return.
You’re still here.
You’re still held.
🧵
Keep the thread.