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We went for a walk this evening. My wife, our dogs (Maple and Olive) and I, in our new neighborhood, in our new city, in our new state.

And we were charged by a dog. A large, black dog. On a dark, black night.

Scared the absolute poop out of us.

Thankfully, Maple and Olive are non-reactive so they honestly were just excited to meet this strange, aggressive, dark-as-night demogorgon dog. And thankfully, this interloper was more afraid of me than we were of him. So after I stopped screaming like a girl, I stood my ground and chased the dog back home. (Just kidding, I didn’t scream like a girl… I would never do that.)

All that to say, we cut our walk short. Went home. Brewed some hot tea and told our nervous systems to calm down.

You’d think it was just a minor hiccup in our day. But honestly, it felt like more than that. It wasn’t just about the dog, it was about feeling unprotected, alone, like interlopers in a place that hasn’t become home yet.

Walking in faith and obedience is a weird thing.

You find yourself resting in the peace of knowing you’re where you’re supposed to be even if you don’t truly understand the reason behind it, while simultaneously mourning pieces of the life you had before.

I am in pain. That is a factual statement. It’s honest. It’s my reality.

When I slow down, when I put my phone down, in the quiet of the evening or the silence of early morning, in the glow of Christmas lights, I feel it.

We moved a number of weeks ago. Away from friends who became family. Away from a church that brought so much healing. Away from everything we knew and everyone we trusted.

And now, things aren’t where they were. They aren’t what they were. I’m not where I was—or who I was. And it feels different.

It hurts knowing that we had to say goodbye. It hurts because we left the first place where I felt whole in my entire adult life.

The double-edged sword of growth, of working on yourself, of pursuing and finding healing—is that you realize pain and grief are not enemies. They’re invitations.

Invitations to sit quietly and face the things that we did not expect: the loss of a loved one, the breakup, the unexpected move. Grieving invites us into the hurt, into the ache. Into what we so often try to numb.

There’s still part of me that wants to numb the pain—to self-medicate, to chase distractions that make me feel better, or feel nothing at all. But that’s like taking Tylenol for a toothache. It may soothe the symptoms, but it will never solve the problem. And much like a toothache, grief left unaddressed only gets worse.

I think what I’m learning now is that while grief feels like a very dark night, its call is an invitation to find beauty through the pain. An invitation to keep walking, even when it hurts. To trust that the light isn’t gone—just waiting to be seen through the dark.

And maybe, in time, I’ll realize the pain was never the enemy. It was the reminder that I’m still alive, still growing, still being made whole.

So for now, I’ll accept the invitation as best I can. I’ll sit with it—the ache, the stillness, the questions. I’ll let grief be my teacher, and grace be my anchor.

And maybe, somewhere in the middle of it all, I’ll start to see the northern lights, the colors of healing, begin to glow.