Yesterday was a long day. It began before the sun had fully shown up. My body was already awake, already humming with that familiar ache that doesn’t ask questions or wait for permission. It’s the pain that settles in early, like a reminder: today will take more than you planned to give. I went alone. Not because I didn’t appreciate the love or the offer of support, but because I knew what I would need once the road stretched out in front of me. I needed quiet. I needed room to breathe without holding anyone else’s worry. I needed the freedom to feel whatever came without managing it for someone else.
On the way there, I did what I always do. I prayed. I asked God to meet me the way He always has, through music. Worship is where my soul loosens its grip. These days, it’s almost all I listen to. We attend a home church now, and while it feeds me in quiet, faithful ways, I miss the worship where your voice cracks, where your chest feels too full to contain what’s inside it. I miss pouring everything out until there’s nothing left to carry. The car became that space. I sang. I cried. I handed over fear, exhaustion, and the small, stubborn hope I keep tucking into my pocket every time I drive toward another test. I asked God to show me something… anything… that said this mattered. That I mattered. That this wasn’t just another mile marker on a road I’ve been walking for years.
This was my third EMG, but it was the first one that truly focused on the places that have been screaming the loudest. The first time I felt like someone was finally looking where I’d been pointing all along. For anyone who’s never had one, an EMG isn’t gentle. The doctor places needles into muscles. Electrical impulses travel through nerves. Your body reacts before your brain has time to prepare. There are jolts you can’t control, moments where your entire system jumps, exposed and vulnerable, while you lie still and hope the data means something. At one point, they hit a “sweet spot.” My entire body jerked. Pain shot through me so fast it stole my breath. My arm throbbed long after, a deep, pulsing ache that settled in and stayed. My legs and feet burned as I walked out, weak and sore, already counting the cost of the drive home.
On the way back, the music played, but I wasn’t really listening anymore. I watched the clock. Four and a half hours… three… two. Time stretched in that cruel way it does when your body hurts and your heart feels heavy, and tears came in waves I didn’t try to stop. I know God has His reasons. I know there is purpose even when I can’t see it. Knowing doesn’t always soften the moment, though. Sometimes it just sits beside you, quiet, while you keep driving. My phone lit up and my eight-year-old told me she missed her momma, and I told her I was trying as hard as I could to get home. My twelve-year-old had chosen to go to her dad’s instead. It made sense. It was more exciting than waiting for Mom to come home sore and tired. I don’t blame her. Still, her empty room greeted me when I walked in, and that absence settled gently but firmly in my chest.
When I finally pulled into the driveway, nothing dramatic happened. The house hummed along as if the day hadn’t just carved something out of me. No big conversations. No unpacking. No questions. Just life moving forward. Later, when I tried to go to bed, my eight-year-old didn’t remember me waking her to tell her I was home, and she cried. I let her crawl into bed with me anyway, holding her close even as my body begged for rest. Love won, as it always does, but sleep never came. Around one in the morning, I moved to the recliner hoping my body might settle there, and it didn’t. My arm throbbed, my legs ached, and my side flared every time I shifted. The day replayed itself on a loop; my mind refused to shut off.
Morning arrived without rest, and the questions followed. Small ones. Ordinary ones. Did you do this? Have you done that? Each landing heavier than it should have after a night with no sleep. I tried to steal a few minutes of rest before the day began again, but my body wouldn’t allow it. Soon my eight-year-old will wake, and the real day will begin… ready or not.
I find myself wanting to run. Not away from my life. Not away from my family. Just away from the weight of it for a little while, away from the constant demand to keep going when my body is begging me to stop. I needed yesterday to matter. I needed the test to feel like more than another entry on a long list. I needed the miles, the pain, the prayers whispered between songs to be seen… not loudly, not dramatically… just acknowledged. I know God is still here. I know He heard every prayer I poured out on that road. I know He hasn’t left me in this. But I also know this: some days aren’t about answers. They’re about waking up sore, driving anyway, loving anyway, holding your child when your body is screaming, and getting up again after a night without rest. Yesterday asked for more of me than I had planned to give… and today, it’s asking again.
