There are quiet struggles no one sees. The kind that don’t show up on MRIs, lab reports, or polite church conversations. The kind that creep in when the world is silent—when the bedroom is dark, and the only thing louder than the ticking clock is the pounding of your heart.

I’ve tasted the salt of night terrors. I’ve felt the bruising weight of PTSD curl itself around my ribcage like a serpent. I’ve known the strange, unrelenting captivity of narcolepsy—like my own body is an unreliable cage. These things don’t just touch your body—they stalk your soul. They whisper lies: You are weak. You are broken. You are forgotten.

But then comes the Psalms.

And suddenly, I’m not alone.

I used to read them like they were someone else’s poetry. Soft, distant. Lovely, but not living. That was before I needed them like oxygen. Now, I read them like a soldier reads a map. Like a desperate woman reads a survival guide.

David wasn’t just a king. He was a warrior. A fugitive. A betrayed friend. A broken husband. A failed father. A man who danced in public and wept in private. A man who could cut off a giant’s head and then cry himself to sleep the same night.

He didn’t sanitize his prayers. He didn’t edit the agony. He poured it out like blood on the altar—and in doing so, he gave me permission to do the same.

The Psalms are soaked in sweat and tears and blood and longing. They are war cries and love songs, laments and lullabies. They don’t hide the darkness—they drag it into the light and dare it to stay. And in that daring, I find my own courage.

“I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears.” (Psalm 6:6)

That’s not just poetry. That’s PTSD. That’s insomnia. That’s waking up from another terrorized dream, tangled in sheets and sweat, trying to breathe. That’s the mind that won’t shut off, the past that won’t die, the guilt that won’t loosen its grip.

But David never stayed in despair.

“The Lord hath heard my supplication; the Lord will receive my prayer.” (Psalm 6:9)

And just when I think I can’t take another step, I find the lifeline in Psalm 121. It hits me like a cry from my own spirit:

“I will lift up my eyes to the hills [of Jerusalem]— From where shall my help come?” (Psalm 121:1 AMP)

Because let’s be honest—some nights, I don’t even know where to look. I’m too tired to pray. Too worn to worship. My help feels far away.

“My help comes from the Lord, Who made heaven and earth.” (Psalm 121:2 AMP)

The God who made galaxies bends low enough to catch my whisper. He doesn’t flinch at the stench of my fear. He doesn’t shame me for trembling. He keeps me.

“He will not allow your foot to slip; He who keeps you will not slumber… Behold, He who keeps Israel will neither slumber [briefly] nor sleep [soundly].” (vv. 3–4)

Even when I collapse into unconsciousness, when my body gives out without warning, my God does not. He doesn’t nap. He doesn’t blink. While I sleep, He watches. While I tremble, He guards.

“The Lord is your keeper; The Lord is your shade on your right hand. The sun will not strike you by day, Nor the moon by night.” (vv. 5–6)

There are nights when the darkness presses in so heavy, as if it has weight. But the Psalms remind me—the night doesn’t own me. The pain doesn’t have the final word. There is shade. There is covering. There is a Keeper who knows how to shield the soul even when the body breaks.

“The Lord will protect you from all evil; He will keep your life.” (v. 7)

I don’t always feel protected. But the Psalms remind me—God’s protection isn’t about insulation from pain. It’s about preservation through it. My soul is still intact. My faith is still breathing. My spirit has not flatlined.

“The Lord will guard your going out and your coming in [everything that you do] from this time forth and forever.” (v. 8)

Even on the days I feel like a prisoner in my own skin, the Word tells me I am guarded. Watched. Kept. Loved. From the moment I open my eyes to the second they slam shut, and in all the hours in between—I am not alone.

It’s sensual in a way—spiritually intimate. A God who gets close enough to smell the salt on your skin, to cradle your jaw in the dark, to stay awake in the silence when your own strength fails you.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…” (Psalm 23:4)

David didn’t walk around the valley. He walked through it. And I do too. Not because I’m brave—but because He is near.

Some nights, my hands still tremble. My chest still tightens. My eyes still snap open before dawn with the ghosts of dreams I can’t control. But when I reach for the Psalms, I’m reaching for something deeper than comfort. I’m reaching for war—the kind that fights lies with truth. The kind that trades despair for hope. The kind that invites heaven to kiss earth.

The Psalms reminded me that there is rest for God’s beloved.

They still do.

Every whisper of pain, every sleepless night, every trembling breath becomes holy when it echoes back the words of a broken warrior-king who dared to write it all down—and a holy God who was never afraid to listen.

If you’re struggling with night terrors, intrusive thoughts, PTSD, or this post resonates with you in some way, you can message me personally or comment below. We can navigate it together. God bless

L. Abigail Bradeen