Of Mud and Mire

A post for the one who doesn’t know how to keep going

There’s a kind of heavy that doesn’t look dramatic. It doesn’t cry loud. It doesn’t draw attention. It just settles, thick and slow, and wraps around your ankles like mud. You try to keep walking. You try to show up. But every step feels like dragging yourself through something invisible that nobody else seems to feel.

Maybe you know that feeling.

Maybe you’re living in it right now.

It’s not that you’ve stopped believing.

It’s not that you’ve turned away.

It’s that you’re tired. You’re aching. You’re deep in the mire, and the edge of the pit feels far, too far, like maybe you’ll never reach it.

This isn’t just sadness. This is survival.

This isn’t just waiting. It’s drowning quietly.

This isn’t just a low season. It’s a full-body ache. A soul-level silence.

Some days you’re still trying.

Other days, you’re not.

And still, you’re here.

And that matters.

I want to say something to the version of you that no one else sees. The version who whispers prayers like questions. The version who folds the laundry while wondering how much longer you can hold everything together. The version who keeps showing up, not because you feel strong, but because something in you is stubborn enough to hope.

Even if it’s just a flicker.

You are not forgotten. You are not lost in the mire.

God sees you right here, in the thick of it. He’s not standing at the top of the pit, waiting for you to reach Him. He is in the mud with you. Not just beside you. Holding you. Anchoring you.

The weight that is pressing on your chest is not too heavy for Him.

The stuck places are not too far gone.

You are not too tired, too late, too complicated, too faithless.

And the pit is not the end.

You will not live here forever.

Psalm 40 doesn’t just say God heard the cry. It says He came. He lifted. He set feet on a rock. That means He didn’t ignore the stuckness. He didn’t scold the cry. He responded to it. He moved toward the one in the mud. He made a way out. And He still does.

But listen, lovely one. He doesn’t always lift us out with lightning speed. Sometimes He teaches us to breathe in the mire. Sometimes He lets us learn the language of survival so we can come back for someone else. So we can say to the next soul stuck knee-deep, “I’ve been there. Here’s my hand.”

This moment matters.

Your groans count.

Your stillness counts.

Your reaching counts.

If you are too tired to pray, whisper His name. If you cannot get up today, let yourself rest knowing that your faith is not in your effort. It’s in His presence.

And if you are still in the mud, hear me… you are not behind. You are becoming. You are learning to carry light in places most people avoid. You are not wasting time. You are being shaped by the God who finds beauty in the broken, power in the pressing, and healing in the heaviness.

He will not leave you here.

But while you are here, He is making you holy.

Keep reaching. Even if your arms shake.

Keep whispering. Even if the words feel empty.

Keep breathing. Even when it hurts.

There is a way through.

And one day, when the ground is firmer under your feet, you’ll look back. You’ll remember. You’ll see how far you’ve come. And you’ll be the one reaching down, whispering to someone else in the mire, “Hold on. I know the way through.”

Bible Verse “He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.” Psalm 40:2

Reflection Question What does it look like for you to reach for Him today, even if the weight is still heavy? What if your survival is not failure, but faith in motion?

Love, Sarah xx.

If these words found you in the thick of it, I’m so glad you’re here. This space was never meant to be polished, just honest. And it means the world that you’re reading along.

If you’re a paid subscriber, there’s a special poem waiting for you in our private chat space, a little reminder that even in the mud, you are not alone.

And if you’d like to support this space, you can always upgrade or even share a post with someone else who might be walking through the hard places too. It’s never expected, just deeply appreciated.