Two Years Down: Still Waiting, Still Healing

It’s a week past the anniversary.
Two years down. Five more to go.
I meant to write on that day—but maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe I needed time to let it settle, to feel it instead of force the words. Because the truth is, even though the date has passed, the journey hasn’t. The healing hasn’t.

There’s something strange about counting time this way—knowing that every day forward is another day without him here. And yet, every day forward is also a step closer to the life we hope and pray for on the other side of this.

Some days, I feel strong. Like I’ve figured out how to carry this weight.
Other days, like today, it just feels heavy.

I never imagined this would be part of our story. That my husband would be behind bars. That we would spend anniversaries and holidays and simple Tuesdays apart. That I’d be walking through life with this ache in my chest and still trying to smile, still trying to show up, still trying to heal.

And yet—we’re still here.
Still waiting.
Still loving.
Still choosing each other.

Being Still in the Waiting

This season has forced me into stillness like never before. I can’t fix it. I can’t speed it up. I can’t rewrite the past or fast-forward to the future. All I can do is be here—with God, with my emotions, with my aching heart—and choose to believe that healing is happening even when I can’t see it.

Being still doesn’t mean I’m okay.
It means I’m learning to sit in what is and trust that God is in it too.

This waiting is part of my healing.
This ache is part of my story.
And somehow, even in the silence, God keeps whispering, “I’m not done yet.”

Love That Waits

People don’t talk enough about this kind of love—the kind that waits through years, letters, visits, lonely nights, and unanswered prayers. But it’s real. And it’s hard. And it’s holy.

I love Will deeply. And loving him through this has taught me more about loyalty, grace, endurance, and raw, unfiltered hope than anything else ever could.

It’s also taught me that healing isn’t just about recovering from a wound—it’s about learning to live with it, breathe through it, and still believe in beauty beyond the pain.

Looking Ahead

Five years is a long time. I won’t sugarcoat that. There are days when it feels impossible. But then I remember how far we’ve already come. Two years of pain, yes—but also two years of strength, two years of showing up, two years of growing in ways I never asked for but know I needed.

So no, I didn’t write on the exact anniversary.
But I’m writing now.
And maybe that’s exactly what healing looks like—
Not perfect. Not on schedule. But real, raw, and honest.

And that’s what I’ll keep doing.
One day at a time.
One prayer at a time.
One still moment at a time.

For Anyone Walking Through the Waiting

Maybe your story looks different.
Maybe you’re in a long-distance relationship that stretches across states or countries.
Maybe your spouse or loved one is behind bars like mine.
Maybe they’re deployed, serving in the military, missing birthdays and holidays and everyday moments that matter so much.

No matter what the reason for the distance—the ache is real.
The quiet in the house. The empty seat at the table. The days that seem to stretch longer than your hope feels. It can take your breath away sometimes. It can knock the wind right out of you.

I see you. I feel it too.

And I want us to hold firm to this truth: God is healing us. Every single day.

I used to be the person who said, “God only gives us what we can handle.”
But over the past two years, I’ve questioned how strong He must believe I am.

And what I’ve come to understand is—it’s not about strength.
It’s about faith.

God knows I have the faith that He has a bigger plan.
A plan to grow us.
A plan to use this pain and distance and loneliness to shape something beautiful.
A plan that we will help others.
A plan that we will heal.

Will and I don’t know the full picture yet. We don’t know how or when this story turns the page.
But we both believe—deeply and fully—that God is always at the center of it.

So if you’re waiting, like me…
If you’re hurting, like me…
If you feel like you’re holding on with trembling hands…

Just know this: you’re not holding on alone.

“Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for He who promised is faithful.”
—Hebrews 10:23 (NIV)

Even here—especially here—God is faithful. He sees every tear, every lonely night, every prayer whispered in the dark. And He’s not done with our stories yet. 💛