Letting Numbness Be What It Is

"My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever." --- Psalm 73:26 (NIV)

There's a part of grief no one talks about enough: numbness. That blank, heavy, muted feeling —like the color's been drained out of the world. That strange disconnect, as if you're watching your life through thick glass. That moment when someone asks, "How are you feeling?" and the honest answer is:

"Nothing. I feel nothing."

It doesn't mean you're cold. It doesn't mean you didn't love enough. It doesn't mean you're "moving on." It doesn't mean your faith is weak or your heart is hard.

It means your heart is doing what it needs to survive.

Think about what happens when your body suffers a severe physical injury. In those first critical moments, your nervous system often releases chemicals that temporarily block pain signals. You might feel strangely calm, detached, or unaware of how serious the injury is.

This isn't a malfunction—it's mercy. It's your body creating a buffer zone so you can function long enough to seek help, to survive until healing can begin.

Numbness in grief works the same way. Sometimes the emotional pain is so overwhelming that your heart creates this buffer zone. It temporarily mutes the sharpest edges of loss so you can breathe, eat, move, exist. It's not absence; it's protection.

Numbness is not a betrayal of love.

It's not an absence of feeling.

It's a pause in feeling.

It's not indifference; it's your soul catching its breath. It's an innate survival strategy.

You don't have to force yourself to cry. You don't have to manufacture emotions to prove you're grieving "right." You don't have to feel guilty for moments of emptiness where there "should" be pain.

You are still grieving even if you don't feel grief in every moment. You are still loving even when your emotions have gone into hiding. You are still healing even in the quiet, blank spaces. You are still loved even if your heart feels far away from God.

Let numbness be what it is: a shelter for now, not a prison forever.

A temporary refuge, not a permanent home. A resting place for a weary heart that has felt too much too fast.

The feelings will return when they are ready, when it's safe for them to emerge. Just as physical pain returns gradually as healing begins, your heart will thaw in its own time. The colors will slowly seep back into your world.

And when they do, God will still be right here—patient, present, steady as ever. “For He Himself has said, ‘I will never leave you nor forsake you,'" (Hebrews 13:5, NKJV). The same God who walks with you through numbness will walk with you through feeling. Neither rushing you nor abandoning you, but simply holding space for whatever comes next.

Breath Prayer:

Lord, when I feel numb and distant, hold me close even when I can't feel Your nearness.

Scripture-Based Prayer:

Lord, even when my heart feels frozen and far away, You are still my strength and my portion forever (Psalm 73:26). You are patient with my silences.

You know that even the quiet ache is precious to You. You promise that nothing—not life or death, angels or demons, present or future—can separate me from Your love (Romans 8:38–39).

When I can’t muster emotions or words, remind me You are holding space for my healing. You are closer than my next heartbeat, closer than my weary thoughts.

Thank You for staying when I have nothing left to give. In Jesus’ Name, I pray.