Emerging from the Valley into a New Season

There are seasons in life that feel like endless night—where pain, confusion, and suffering seem to swallow every ounce of hope. For me, that season began in the first week of December 2023.

I don’t remember much from that day, only fragments of what happened. One moment I was at home, and the next, I was being medevaced by helicopter to the University of Tennessee Medical Center. My body was shutting down from a parasite that had been inside me for years, slowly weakening me until it finally brought me to my knees.

In the ICU, I suffered multiple mini-strokes, and at one point, I even passed on the table—only to be brought back. My body was being kept alive by multiple IVs, machines, and the relentless work of doctors and nurses I had never met. For seven days, I was unconscious. When I finally opened my eyes, I was disoriented, everything looked black and white, and though I could see people’s lips moving, I couldn’t hear a sound. Hours later, when I opened my eyes again, color had returned, sound had returned, and a nurse gently greeted me back into the world.

The pain was overwhelming. The shock was real. I remember silently weeping, asking myself, What in the world just happened to me?

And then, in that fragile moment, a scripture rose up inside me:

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” — Philippians 4:13

I whispered, “Father, You will have to be my strength, because right now, I have none.”

That was the beginning of my healing journey. I had to learn how to walk again. I had to endure months of recovery, with moments that felt unbearable. I was uprooted and unsettled, facing the reality of moving back to Alaska while still fighting through weakness and pain. For over a year, it felt as if I was walking through a valley I didn’t know how to escape—a very real dark night of the soul.

It was hard. It was hurtful. It was sad. And yet… it was not without purpose.

Because in that dark place, I learned surrender. I learned that when all strength is gone, God Himself becomes our strength. I learned to pray not from a place of control, but from utter dependence. I learned that even when my world turned black and white, God was still painting in color.

Now, as I stand here today, I sense a shift. That long night is ending. A new season is dawning.

The valley doesn’t last forever. The storm eventually passes. And while the scars remain, they serve as reminders of God’s mercy, His power to restore, and His promise to carry us through the shadows.

Today, I feel the sun rising again. The dark night of the soul is over, and I am stepping into the light of a new season with renewed faith, deeper trust, and a heart that knows—truly knows—that God is faithful.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5

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A Closing Prayer

Heavenly Father,
Thank You for being our strength when we have none. For those walking through their own dark night, remind them that You are near—that even in the valley, You are the light that never fades. Teach us to surrender, to trust, and to lean fully on You. Lord, bring healing where there is pain, peace where there is fear, and joy where there has been sorrow. We declare in faith that the night will not last forever, and that Your morning light will rise over our lives. In Jesus’ name, Amen.