A Series of Small Rescues: Maya’s Story with Grief
“You don’t have to rush your way out of the dark.”
I’m Maya. I’m an Atlanta woman through and through, loud when it matters, quiet when it counts, and always trying to show up with my whole heart. I love singing, serving, and walking with people through their real stuff, the kind we usually hide. I’ve spent most of my life working with kids, families, and communities, somehow ending up in the places where people are hurting but hopeful. And honestly, that’s where I’ve lived too, between hope and heartbreak, trying to make sense of the distance.
My story begins long before I had the language to describe what grief was doing to me. It starts in the small, ordinary moments of childhood growing up in Atlanta, surrounded by family, music, and the kind of community that teaches you to be strong even when you’re not sure what that means yet. I grew up learning how to show up for people, how to be dependable, how to love hard.
What I didn’t realize at the time was how those same strengths would later become the places where life would stretch me the most. I was the kid who felt everything deeply: joy, fear, responsibility, hope. I carried people in my heart long before I understood the weight of that. I loved my family fiercely. I loved connection. I loved being the one others could come to when they needed steadiness. But I also learned early on that when you love like that, loss doesn’t just pass through you; it rearranges you. My story begins in those early patterns: wanting to hold the world together, wanting to be strong for everyone, wanting every relationship to matter. By the time I reached adulthood, those threads had become an integral part of my identity, a blend of faith, loyalty, sensitivity, and resilience. I entered every job, every friendship, every season with that same wide-open heart.
The losses didn’t start all at once, but when they came, they came like waves—my brother, my grandmother, my friend, my job, relationships I thought were safe, and finally my father. Looking back, I can see how each loss touched something in childhood I never fully examined: my fear of being left, my longing for safety, my love for family, my desire to be seen and valued. The hardest part was the stretch between losing my friend and losing my father. It felt like life kept taking people I couldn’t imagine living without.
When my father passed, something in me just… dropped. I remember waking up one morning and feeling like there was no ground under me, like I was falling through my own life. I was tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix, spiritually numb, emotionally worn down from loss after loss. I wasn’t sure I could survive another hit, and I didn’t have the words to explain how heavy everything felt. It was the first time I genuinely wondered if joy would ever find its way back to me, or if this was just who I’d be now: someone holding too many goodbyes.
“I wondered if joy would ever find its way back to me...”
God didn’t break through the darkness all at once. I didn’t get a dramatic miracle moment. I got a series of small rescues.
He met me in Colorado, in the quiet of the mountains, where the air felt wide enough for my pain.
He met me during the 55 days I committed to my mental health program, where I learned how to name what I’d been carrying and let people help me hold it.
And He met me when I chose sobriety, when I put the bottle down and faced myself without the fog.
None of it felt glamorous. Most days felt like inching forward. But every step was God saying, “I’m still here. Keep breathing.”
Little by little, He used those choices to steady me. He gave me glimpses of myself I thought grief had erased. He didn’t rush me or shame me; He just kept offering light in small, stubborn doses. Healing hasn’t been linear, and it definitely isn’t finished, but I can look back now and see His fingerprints on every place I thought I was alone.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
I held on tight to this scripture, not because it made the pain disappear, but because it reminded me that God wasn’t standing far off, waiting for me to get myself together. He was near. Near when I couldn’t pray, near when I was crying in parking lots, near in Colorado, near in recovery, near in sobriety. That verse held me together when I couldn’t hold myself, because it told the truth: God isn’t intimidated by heartbreak, but He steps into it.
What would you tell someone in a similar place?
You don’t have to rush your way out of the dark.
You’re not weak because you’re hurting, and you’re not broken beyond repair because life hit you harder than you expected.
Grief is heavy, but it’s not a verdict on your future. God isn’t waiting on the other side of their healing, but He’s sitting right beside them in it, steady as a heartbeat. And even if they can only take life one hour at a time, that’s enough. I’d also tell them to let themselves be human. Let themselves rest. Let themselves ask for help. Healing doesn’t arrive like lightning; it comes in slow, faithful steps: counseling, community, quiet, choosing sobriety, walking outside, letting someone pray for you when you can’t lift your own words. I’d remind them they’re not alone, they’re not a burden, and even now, especially now, there’s a future being built for them that doesn’t look like this moment. Hope is still moving, even if you can’t feel it yet.
One of the biggest things that carried me was a community that refused to let me disappear. The people who checked in when I went quiet, who sat with me without trying to fix anything, who prayed for me when I didn’t have the strength or the language. They were like small lanterns along a path I couldn’t see: friends, mentors, my church family, even strangers who showed kindness at exactly the right moment.
Therapy was a lifeline too. Having a space where I could unravel without judgment, where someone could help me sort through the chaos and name what was happening inside that changed everything. Community held my heart, and therapy helped me hold my mind. Together, they kept me steady while God did the deeper work underneath it all.
Some days I still feel the weight of what I’ve lost, and that’s okay. God is faithful even when I don’t understand His timing, and He uses even the hardest seasons to shape me, teach me, and draw me closer to Him. I want anyone walking through loss to know that it’s okay to lean on Him, to lean on others, and to take the time you need.
You don’t have to “move on” quickly; just keep moving forward, even in the smallest steps, and trust that God is holding you through it all.
Recommended resources from Maya:
Try Softer by Aundi Kolber // Book
As Long as You Need: Permission to Grieve by J.S. Park // Book
