For sixty years, I carried a black hole inside me.
Unseen. Unknown. Unloved. Unwanted.
Everywhere I turned, that emptiness whispered back: You’re nothing. You’re nobody. You don’t matter.
So I spent decades trying to fill the void.
I filled it with survival. Pushing through. Smiling when I was breaking. Pretending to be strong while silently drowning.
I filled it with striving. Degrees, jobs, achievements, ministry titles. Bachelor’s. Master’s. Coach certifications. Promotions. Director roles. Every time I thought, Maybe this will do it. Maybe this will make me enough.
I filled it with possessions. Clothes, cars, homes, shopping bags. Bargain racks and “buy one, get three.” I thought having more would make me feel more.
I filled it with people. Hookups that lasted five minutes or five months. Relationships I knew were broken before they began. Codependency with my mother, siblings and children. A desperate hunger for someone, anyone, to look at me and say, You matter. You’re safe. I see you.
I filled it with ministry. Serving in the church, directing children’s ministry, volunteering everywhere I could. I thought maybe if I poured myself out enough, God would finally notice and fill me back up.
But no matter what I did, the void yawned wider.
The weight of depression
Depression was my silent partner. My bedmate. My shadow. It wrapped me in a weighted blanket with lead shoes.
I lived in a constant gray. Survival, not life.
Every smile was a facade. Every laugh was a performance.
Five suicide attempts. Countless suicidal thoughts.
Meds dulled the edges, but they also dulled me. No highs, no lows, no joy, no laughter. Just existing. One foot in front of the other, one year after another, carrying an emptiness I couldn’t escape.
And behind it all, that voice: You are unseen. Unknown. Unloved.
Straddling the fence
Even when I found myself in church, I was still straddling the line. I could serve in ministry and still go home to sin. I could lift my hands in worship and still drown in depression. I could quote scripture and still chase the same broken patterns.
I knew God. But I didn’t surrender.
And so the void remained.
The Breaking Point
Loss piled on loss.
Jobs gone.
Finances collapsed.
Car repossessed.
Evicted.
Family fractured.
I reached the end of myself, and still the void pulled at me like gravity. I was tired. So tired.
I couldn’t buy my way out.
I couldn’t study my way out.
I couldn’t love my way out.
I couldn’t work my way out.
And in the silence of my breaking, God whispered: I never asked you to fill the void. I am the One who fills.
What I didn’t know then
Looking back, I see it so clearly now. God was never absent. He was never indifferent. He was never late. He was waiting.
Waiting for me to stop running.
Waiting for me to stop filling.
Waiting for me to stop striving.
Waiting for me to surrender.
The void wasn’t proof that I was nothing. It was proof that I was made for more — made for Him.
“For he satisfies the longing soul, and the hungry soul he fills with good things.” (Psalm 107:9)
Closing the gap
I’ll share in my next post about what surrender really looked like and the moment everything shifted. But for today, I want to name this truth:
The void was real. The ache was real. The depression was real.
But God’s love was more real.
He didn’t just patch the hole. He remade my heart.
And the Kimberly who lived for sixty years as unseen, unknown, unloved? She is no longer here.
The void that consumed me has been filled. Not with things. Not with people. Not with striving. But with Him.
A Quiet Prayer
Lord, you know the ache that no one else sees.
You know the void that swallows every attempt we make to fill it.
Teach us to stop striving, to stop numbing, to stop running.
Meet us in the empty places.
Fill us with Yourself.
Amen.
For You (if you want to sit with this)
What have you been trying to use to fill the void in your heart?
How might God be inviting you to stop striving and start surrendering?
Read Psalm 107:9 slowly. What “good thing” has He already given you that points back to His love?
I’m following this series in reverse, tracing your steps through the forest—walking the path to its beginning…and I’m leaving breadcrumbs for others…
“I lived in a constant gray. Survival, not life. Every smile was a facade. Every laugh was a performance.” Wow! You just described me. It has been 40 years since I was suicidal, but the depression, or perhaps spiritual attacks, take me by surprise and the fight becomes exhausting. But God has not let go. Thank you for your vulnerable words, Kimberly.