Held in the Letting Go Isaiah 41:10 - Personal blog of Trisha Rapley, Australian Author.

I sit with God in the quiet places now.

Not because the pain is finished, but because it has nowhere else to go.

There are moments when words fail me—when all I can offer Him is my presence and the ache in my chest. I do not come to Him strong. I do not come to Him healed. I come as I am: tired, grieving, and aware that letting go is not a single decision but a thousand small ones made in silence.

This is where I am learning to stay.

Not rushing ahead to prove I am okay. Not retreating backward to what is familiar. But standing still in God, allowing myself to remain exactly where He has placed me.

I am learning that great healing does not always begin with movement. Sometimes it begins with stillness. By choosing not to escape the pain, not to distract myself from the ache, not to fill the silence with noise or answers that come too quickly. I stand here with God, steady and unmoving, letting Him minister to the places that only stillness can reach.

In this sacred pause, I am discovering that God works most deeply when I stop striving. When I let my heart settle long enough for truth to surface. When I allow Him to speak beneath the noise of my emotions rather than above them. Stillness is not absence—it is presence. It is trust. It is faith expressed without words.

So I remain here. Not because I am healed yet, but because I am being held.

God does not rush me here. He does not ask me to hurry through my heartbreak or justify why it hurts this much. He sits with me as the weight settles, as memories rise and fall, as my hands tremble while releasing what once felt like home. He lets the sorrow speak. He lets the tears come. He lets the love remain—even as I loosen my grip.

Letting go feels less like strength and more like surrender.

It is the quiet unravelling of what I hoped would last.

It is trusting that God can hold what I no longer can.

There is grief in this release—not just for what was, but for what I believed might be. And God meets me there, too. He gently shows me the places where healing is still needed, not to shame me, but to free me. He traces the cracks in my heart with care, reminding me that awareness is not failure—it is invitation.

Invitation to heal.

Invitation to soften without reopening wounds.

Invitation to love without abandoning myself.

My heart is bruised from accepting what my mind knew years before, yes—but it is not bitter.

It still chooses love.

Even now, I refuse to harden. I refuse to close myself off in self-protection alone. Instead, I let God teach me how to grieve without losing my gentleness, how to let go without erasing what mattered, how to move forward without pretending I am untouched.

This letting go is not loud.

It does not announce itself with certainty.

It happens quietly—like loosening fingers, like breath leaving lungs, like a song fading into silence rather than ending abruptly.

There is a tenderness in this kind of release. A sadness that carries dignity. It feels like finally trusting God enough to stop fighting the loss and instead let it pass through me—knowing it will not destroy me, knowing He is steady beneath it all.

God is not distant in this pain.

He is near.

He is close enough to hear the thoughts I never speak.

Strong enough to carry the weight I can no longer hold.

He reminds me that healing does not mean forgetting. It means integrating. It means allowing love to transform rather than imprison me. It means believing that what is released in obedience is never lost in Him.

And slowly—so slowly—I begin to understand:

letting go is not giving up on love. It is trusting love to exist beyond attachment.

So I sit with God.

With my broken heart.

With my open hands.

I let myself feel everything—because He is here for all of it.

And in this sacred space between grief and hope, I choose love again.

Not because it is easy.

But because God is faithful.

So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.

I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

Isaiah 41:10

Lord,

I come to You without armour, without answers, without the strength I thought I would have by now. I come with a heart that is breaking and hands that are learning how to release. I sit with You in the discomfort, the grief, and the quiet ache of letting go—trusting that You are not afraid of any part of me.

Thank you for staying with me in this pain.

Thank you for not rushing my healing or minimising my loss.

Thank you for holding what I cannot and seeing the places in me that need care, not correction.

Show me where healing is still required—not to expose me, but to restore me. Teach me how to grieve honestly and love gently at the same time. Help me release what must be released without closing my heart to what is still good.

When my heart feels fragile, be my strength.

When my emotions overwhelm me, be my anchor.

When letting go feels unbearable, remind me that You are holding me more securely than anything I am releasing.

God, I choose love—even through the pain.

I choose obedience—even when it costs me.

I choose to trust that what is surrendered to You is never lost, only transformed.

Stay with me as I heal.

Walk with me as I loosen my grip.

Carry me into the peace You promise.

Amen.

Held in the Letting Go Isaiah 41:10 - Personal blog of Trisha Rapley, Australian Author.

Held in the Letting Go Isaiah 41:10 - Personal blog of Trisha Rapley, Australian Author.