Climbing Out of the Bowl of Grief

It’s harder than I thought—praying out loud.

I’ve struggled for days. Head pounding. Shoulders tight.

And then I asked Ken if I could just… try.

Because even in the tension, something in me wants to break through.

My past?

I’ve made peace with it.

I forgive it.

And I see now how it shaped the woman I’m still becoming.

There’s beauty in that. There’s power in knowing what I’ve walked through.

But going forward?

That’s where I’m stuck.

Where do I go?

How do I go?

Most days, I feel like I’m trapped in a deep, round bowl—

Working my way toward the lid, desperate to climb out.

Some days, I run fast and hard like I might finally make it.

But then I lose steam, and I slide back down.

And there I sit, neck stretched, face lifted, doing everything I can not to drown in the spiral.

But I get back up.

Every. Single. Day.

And that—that is victory, even when it doesn’t feel like it.

People say grief gets easier with time.

But it doesn’t.

Time just brings new layers.

You stop wondering about the boy you lost,

And start wondering about the man he’d be.

Would his voice be deep?

Would he have that six-pack he always joked about?

Would he have long hair or short?

College or no?

Girlfriend?

Grief doesn’t leave. It just evolves.

You outgrow old thoughts and find new aches.

But even as I sit in that bowl, I feel it—

That there’s a reason.

That I’m not alone.

That somehow, He has my back.

And that’s what keeps me climbing.

I’m learning to ask Him for help with every decision now.

To listen when it’s quiet.

To believe in the dreams He buried deep inside me—the ones grief tried to silence.

I’m praying for healing.

I’m believing for restoration.

And I’m hoping I’ll see you again.

I wish we had come here together.

I wish you had stood in my home and prayed over it with me.

Maybe one day—somehow, some way.

Until then, I’ll keep climbing.

Because I will see victory in Jesus.

And when I do, it’ll be worth every fall.

If any of this speaks to you—if you’ve ever felt like you were climbing your way out of your own “bowl”—I’d love to hear from you.

You don’t need to have the right words. Tell me where you are. Tell me what you’re carrying.

You can email me at [email protected] or message me on Instagram at @heyjuliespears.

We don’t heal by pretending we’re okay.

We heal by telling the truth and knowing we’re not alone in it.

I’m listening. And I’d be honored to walk with you.

Julie