Sadness is the muted ache that all too often clings to me. Like arthritis on a rainy day or the dull sensation of an achy tooth, there are days I awake in sadness, work through sadness, and go to sleep with no relief. It is not overwhelming, but it is there, coloring my disposition, relationships, and outlook on life.

It is an emotion I have wrestled with earnestly. It is an emotion I have often sought to put to death. It is an emotion many have lovingly rebuked me for having, accusing me of a lack of faith and offering simple platitudes to “fix me.” In fact, for most of my life, I have felt an acute sense of guilt and shame for a cloud that often will not lift.

This, too, has caused me sadness. A sadness on top of sadness that leaves me worse off than before. In those moments, I often ask many questions, but I am usually left with few good answers.

What have I done wrong?
Does God not hear my plea?
What sin do I need to repent of?
Will I ever be free of this?

These questions gnaw at me, fueled by a deeper misunderstanding of what it means to live as a Christian. Part of my problem was that I was given a very wrong view of Christianity.

As a young adult, I attended churches where plastic smiles seemed normal. Instagram-filtered friendships were the standard; everyone looked more put together than I was. No one ever seemed to struggle because that was evidence of a lack of faith. Everyone seemed at perfect peace, relationships were always thriving, living rooms were always cleaned, and all the joy in the world came as naturally and as easily to them as breathing. And I was left on the outside of that paradigm looking in.

If they were the picture of faithfulness, then perhaps God was rewarding them with joy. And if I was the epitome of failure, I must be getting what I deserve. This was the skewed vision of the world I had been given.

I didn’t realize at the time that most were just as broken as me. They just were not honest enough to live that way. Ironically, I lived in a Christian culture but was not taught to think biblically.

As I turned to the Bible for relief, a different picture began to emerge. While the glitz and glam of our happy, shallow American church life distracted me, I cannot remember a single sermon on Lamentations or Ecclesiastes. I cannot recall a single worship set that ended with a dirge. It never seemed okay to honestly share how I felt without rebuke. I honestly cannot remember anyone being real with me.

But as I turned to the Bible, I realized so much is actually said about joy through pain, hope in depression, and honesty and vulnerability in the struggle. I began to see that the biblical message was the opposite of what I had experienced in Western Christianity. The biblical vision was not trite at all or platitudinous in any way. It was beautiful.

It’s funny... In my youthful idealism and zeal, books like Lamentations felt like out-of-place downers written by the clinically depressed. Jeremiah and Solomon looked weak to me—losers, suboptimal messengers of pain that I could barely relate to—instead of the happy cheerleaders I saw on stage.

But now, after much reflection, these books have become a sweet balm for my times in the desert. I see their transparent honesty as meaningful, beautiful, and strong.

I now see how joy, real joy, is not bound up in my emotions, but instead transcends them with a committed hope in God. I have learned that mourning is not defeat. Pain is not weakness. Lamenting is not sinful. And sadness can be strength, so long as it is tethered to the promises of God.

I have learned that joy must not be easy, for if it were, it would not be joy. It is a fight worth fighting for. It is a fight to reposition our minds on the promises of God in the midst of the decay of life and the downfall of what we never should have hoped in to begin with.

Hope can be found in the darkest pains. For those struggling, I would encourage you: don’t run from your sadness. Instead, run to God with it. Let the psalms guide your prayers. Write out your laments. Surround yourself with believers who will listen without trying to fix you. And keep opening your Bible, even when it feels dry. God’s promises never fail, even when everything else does.

When I look to Christ, I see the ultimate example of joy through pain. He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief, and yet, for the joy set before Him, He endured the cross (Hebrews 12:2). His suffering wasn’t meaningless—it was redemptive. And because of Him, my pain is not meaningless either. Even in my sadness, I am united with a Savior who understands and redeems it.

For instance, at the very center of Lamentations, in the midst of the most awful tragedy, the author bravely pens the most courageous words of hope. These words do not exist in a vacuum. The pain he is experiencing is real. But instead of wallowing, his words are a declaration of hope in God even when hope can be found in nothing else.

Jeremiah says:

“The LORD’S lovingkindnesses indeed never cease,
For His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness.
“The LORD is my portion,” says my soul,
“Therefore I have hope in Him.”
The LORD is good to those who wait for Him,
To the person who seeks Him.
It is good that he waits silently
For the salvation of the LORD...
For the Lord will not reject forever,
For if He causes grief,
Then He will have compassion
According to His abundant lovingkindness...
Is it not from the mouth of the Most High
That both good and ill go forth?
Why should any living mortal, or any man,
Offer complaint in view of his sins?
Let us examine and probe our ways,
And let us return to the LORD.”
- Lamentations‬ ‭3:22-26, 31-32, 38-40

True joy can be found in depression, sadness, anxiety, and pain. You are not broken because you hurt. Real brokenness is sitting in your hurt without looking to the healer.