Dimmed Glow, Heavy Heart

At the end of so many days, I find myself in a battle with my own thoughts- not over big things, but over tiny moments that somehow manage to haunt me. A glance that felt different. A text that didn’t sound like it usually does. A tone that seemed off. Little things that grow louder in my mind the more I replay them.

Maybe you’re that way too. If so, I hope this makes you feel seen. Because I’m not just talking about being sensitive. I’m talking about something deeper: that crashing moment when you feel on top of the world and then suddenly, in an instant, your sense of worth feels like it’s been challenged. You feel discarded, unlovable- completely alone.

Part of it may be the environment I’ve ended up in: far away from my family, my closest friends, and the only life I’ve ever known. But there’s also a haunting mental load that comes with this, and because it’s invisible, it’s harder to recognize. Some call it spiritual warfare, others call it anxiety. There are countless labels, but the truth remains: it’s real, it’s ugly, and it’s debilitating.

Your life can look fine, your day can go well, and still- fake happiness only lasts so long. I think a lot more of us struggle with this than we like to admit. You can even see it in people, if you pay enough attention. There’s that moment after a laugh or smile, where their eyes fall to the floor and you watch the sadness sink back into their face.

I know that look, because I’ve worn it too.

And here’s the hard part: people say they’re open to the tough conversations, but often it doesn’t feel that way. We live in a world of performative compassion- T-shirts, hashtags, reposted quotes- yet when someone actually tries to be vulnerable, they’re met with sideways glances, whispers, or quiet gossip in a group chat. I wish people held the same kindness in real life that they project online. Not in a performative way, but in a genuine way that helps others keep from slipping deeper into the dark.

This isn’t just about mental health in the abstract. It shows up in ordinary lives and ordinary jobs.

Take mine, for example: I’m a teacher.

I love being a teacher. It’s my world. 

Did you catch it? 

I just made my job my personality- and that’s a problem.

It’s an easy trap to fall into for anyone in a career that doesn’t really end when you clock out. Lawyers, doctors, businesspeople- we all know the jobs that spill into every corner of life. For teachers, it’s layered even more. We’re not only “on the clock” in the classroom; we’re held to invisible standards outside of it too. How we dress. How we post online. How quickly we respond to parent messages.

Everything is observed, weighed, judged.

And when every part of you is being watched through that lens, it’s easy to forget that there is a separation. That there should be a separation. Because if I’m not careful, I start confusing who I am with what I do. That’s a slippery slope- losing yourself in anything that isn’t grounded in God Himself. Because then the small things start to matter too much.

Someone doesn’t smile the way they usually do? I take it personally. A message feels shorter than normal? I assume the worst. I notice these things, and I care about them deeply. In my mind, everyone else must be doing the same… right?

But the truth is- they’re not. Not always.

And yet, these fleeting moments- things so small they seem silly in hindsight- can make me question my worth as a person. That’s what hurts the most.

Because here’s the thing: I used to feel sparkly. Bold. Bright enough to fill a room just by walking in.

Now, on my hardest days, I feel shadowy. Dim. Like my spark has been snuffed out.

But all lights turned off, can be turned back on.

The glow isn’t gone forever. It just needs tending. And sometimes, remembering that is the lifeline that keeps me steady.

Let me pause with a disclaimer: this isn’t about my coworkers or my boss. In fact, my boss is one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever worked for, and a big part of why I love my job. What I’m talking about isn’t people- it’s the role itself. The responsibility. The weight of carrying so much of the future in your hands.

Because kids are kids. Messy, brilliant, chaotic, and wonderful. They deserve every ounce of love and structure we can give. But if I let my investment in them become everything, I lose myself in the process. And if I lose myself, I can’t actually be the influence I’m meant to be for them in the first place. 

So here’s what I’m reminding myself tonight:

I am more than my job. More than my mistakes. More than the imagined tones and sideways glances and overthought messages. We are more than the titles we carry. Our worth isn’t measured by how others perceive us- it simply is.

One of my coworkers, who I now consider a friend, recently told me: “You are creative, loving, caring, passionate, and a really hard worker. That difference is felt by your kids and seen by all of us, even if it’s not the kind of thing that shows up on a spreadsheet.”

I needed that reminder. Maybe you do too.

Because here’s the truth: no one’s light ever really goes out. It flickers, it dims, sometimes it hides for a season- but it can always be sparked again. And maybe the way we help each other find it is by being brave enough to see the darkness, sit with it, and remind each other: you are still glowing, even when you can’t feel it yourself.

And if you know someone who’s sitting in the dark right now, clinging to their mustard seed of faith- try to be the one who tells them you see them. That you’re there. It may be exactly what they need to make it through today.