Faith & Fatigue

Faith and Fatigue

There are seasons of life that feel loud — full of answers, direction, and visible progress.
And then there are seasons that are painfully quiet. Heavy. Long. Exhausting.

This is a story about one of those seasons.

When my son Grant was little, we didn’t have language for what we were living through. We didn’t know about autism. We didn’t know about sensory overload or night terrors. We just knew that something wasn’t right — and that sleep was no longer part of our lives.

For the first five years of Grant’s life, he didn’t sleep through the night. From ages two to three especially, he would wake up screaming for hours — not crying, but panicked. Terrified. If I touched him, it made it worse. He didn’t respond to his name. He didn’t communicate with words. And I didn’t know how to reach him.

At the time, I didn’t know that for many children with ASD, night terrors are common. I didn’t know there was a name for what was happening. I only knew that my baby seemed trapped inside fear — and I was powerless to fix it.

It was typical to get only one decent night of sleep a month during those years. My husband needed rest for early mornings. Our older son had school. And so most nights, I stayed awake. Two or three hours of sleep became my normal. I worked during the day, so naps weren’t an option. My eyes stayed swollen from crying. My body stayed exhausted. My heart stayed heavy.

And yet, somehow… life kept going.

One night, when Grant was around three, we were in the middle of a particularly bad cycle of night terrors. After hours of screaming, he finally grew quiet and turned away from me. That silence broke something inside me.

I remember sitting there as unstoppable sobs took over my body. I wasn’t just tired — I was done. Done hoping. Done searching for answers. Done pretending I was strong enough to keep going.

I remember asking God, Why my baby?
Why autism? Why something so cruel, so hard, so unfair?

And then — quietly, clearly — God spoke to my heart.

“Just praise Me.”

I remember thinking, Really?
Really, God? I need You to come down here and fix this. I am tired. I am empty. I cannot do this anymore.

Just praise You?
Okay. Sure.

The next night, when the screaming started again, I could barely speak. My voice was weak. My body was shaking. But through tears, I whispered, God, I praise You.

Nothing visually changed in Grant at that moment.

But something changed in me.

What I didn’t understand then — but I do now — is this truth:
Every victory begins with praise.

Not praise that ignores the pain.
Not praise that pretends everything is fine.
But praise that says, I don’t understand, and I don’t have answers — but I still trust You.

That night, God didn’t give me explanations. He gave me His presence. And that was enough to carry me through the season.

Because sometimes faith doesn’t look like confidence.
Sometimes faith looks like survival.

And sometimes praise is nothing more than a whisper through tears.

I wrote these words in my heart back then, and they still ring true today:
“Even if You don’t heal Grant, I will praise You.”

Fast forward to now.

Grant is almost twelve. He is still nonverbal. He is taller than I ever imagined he would be at this age. The fatigue is still here — just different. Parenting a nonverbal child brings new challenges as the years go on. There are worries, responsibilities, and physical demands I didn’t anticipate.

And 2025… it’s been a year.

Not all of the exhaustion came from Grant. Some of it came from heartbreak. From people I loved deeply who let me down. From stress. From travel. From aging and realizing my body doesn’t bounce back like it used to. From learning that I can’t carry what I once did.

More than once this year, during prayer, I’ve felt the Lord gently whisper something that stopped me in my tracks:

All of your problems do not have to be solved today.
That is not your job.

Your only job… is to praise Me.

Not fix everything.  

Not figure everything out.
Not carry what was never meant to be yours.

Just praise Him.

And hear me when I say this — it is okay if that praise is quiet.
It is okay if it’s barely audible.
It is okay if it’s offered through tears and exhaustion.

Praise shifts your focus.
It shifts your mindset.
And eventually — gently — it leads you to peace.

Faith and fatigue often walk hand in hand. Loving deeply costs something. Showing up day after day requires strength we don’t always have. But God is not asking us to be strong — He’s asking us to be faithful.

In every season — even the ones that drain us — He is enough.

So today, if you’re tired…
If you’re overwhelmed…
If you’re holding on by a thread…

Let your praise be a whisper if that’s all you have.

It’s enough. 

With love and gratitude,
Layna 

If this spoke to your heart, I hope you’ll stay awhile — read more, reflect with us, and remember: you are never alone in the quiet seasons.