For every soul who has asked this question in the quiet darkness of 3 AM
My Dearest, Tender-Hearted Friend,
I see you there in the space between hope and despair, asking the question that every human heart whispers when the weight of life feels too heavy to carry another step forward. You’re wondering if the pain you’re feeling right now this deep, bone-tired ache that seems to color everything gray, if it will ever soften into something more bearable.
You’re asking if it gets better.
And I want to hold your heart so gently as I tell you this: it does. Not in the way you might expect, not in the timeline you’re hoping for, but yes, my darling it gets better.
Let me tell you how I know.
I Know Because I’ve Walked This Road
There was a time when I couldn’t imagine feeling anything other than the heaviness that had taken up residence in my chest. When every morning felt like swimming up through thick honey just to breathe. When well-meaning people told me to “think positive” and I wanted to scream because positive thinking felt like trying to paint over a wound without cleaning it first.
I know what it’s like to smile at the grocery store checkout while dying inside. To answer “I’m fine” automatically while your soul is quietly falling apart. To wonder if this gray, muted version of life is all you get to have, if joy is something that happens to other people but not to you.
I know what it’s like to ask “does it get better?” and fear that the answer might be no.
But here I am, writing to you from the other side not because the pain disappeared overnight like magic, but because I learned something profound about what “better” actually means.
Better Doesn’t Mean Perfect
When I was in my darkest places, I thought “better” meant returning to some idealized version of happiness where nothing ever hurt and life felt effortless and joyful all the time. I was waiting for a complete transformation, a dramatic before-and-after moment where suddenly everything would be bright and easy.
What I discovered is that “better” is much more gentle and nuanced than that.
Better is waking up one Tuesday morning and realizing you slept through the night without anxiety dreams. It’s catching yourself humming while making coffee. It’s feeling genuinely curious about a book someone recommended instead of just nodding politely while feeling nothing.
Better is not the absence of difficult emotions, but the presence of your own capacity to be with them without drowning. It’s not never feeling sad again, but remembering that sadness is a visitor, not a permanent resident.
Better is learning to be tender with yourself on the hard days instead of beating yourself up for not being “over it” yet. It’s understanding that healing doesn’t follow a straight line, and that having a rough week doesn’t erase the progress you’ve made.
The Quiet Miracles of Getting Better
Better often arrives in whispers, not fanfare. It’s noticing that you’ve gone three days without that crushing weight in your chest. It’s laughing at something really laughing and remembering how good that feels. It’s choosing to stay present in a difficult conversation instead of disappearing into survival mode.
Better is discovering that you can hold both grief and gratitude in the same breath. That you can miss someone terribly and still feel grateful for having known them. That you can acknowledge how hard things have been while also recognizing your incredible strength in surviving them.
Better is realizing that you’re not broken and in need of fixing – you’re human and in need of healing. And healing, unlike fixing, honors your wholeness even in your wounded places.
The Seasons of Your Heart
I’ve learned that emotional healing follows seasons, just like nature does. There are winters when everything feels dormant and barren, when you wonder if anything beautiful will ever grow in the landscape of your heart again. These seasons can feel endless when you’re in them.
But just as spring always follows winter not because we deserve it or earn it, but because that’s the nature of life – your heart has its own seasons of renewal. There will be times when hope sprouts unexpectedly, when joy blooms in places you thought were barren forever, when love grows back stronger in soil that once felt too damaged to nurture anything.
The key is learning to trust the seasons of your heart, even when you’re in winter. Even when it feels like spring will never come. Because it will come. Maybe not when you expect it, maybe not how you pictured it, but it will come.
What I Wish I’d Known in My Darkest Moments
When I was asking “does it get better?” with tears in my eyes and doubt in my heart, I wish someone had told me these truths:
Your pain is not evidence that you’re broken. It’s evidence that you’re human, that you care deeply, that you’ve been affected by life in ways that matter. Feeling deeply isn’t a flaw – it’s a superpower, even when it hurts.
Healing doesn’t have a deadline. There’s no cosmic timer counting down how long you’re allowed to grieve, to struggle, to not be okay. You get to take as long as you need. Your healing journey belongs to you, not to anyone else’s expectations or timeline.
You don’t have to earn your way out of pain. You don’t have to be positive enough, grateful enough, or spiritually evolved enough to deserve relief. Better will come not because you’ve jumped through the right hoops, but because that’s what hearts do – they heal when given time, tenderness, and care.
Small steps count. Getting out of bed counts. Taking a shower counts. Eating something nourishing counts. Asking for help counts. You don’t have to make dramatic leaps toward healing – baby steps in the direction of caring for yourself are more than enough.
It’s okay to not believe in better right now. If hope feels too far away, if trusting that things will improve feels impossible, that’s okay. Let others hold the hope for you until you’re ready to hold it yourself. There’s no shame in borrowing faith from people who love you.
The Gift of Your Tender Heart
Sweet soul, the very fact that you’re asking “does it get better?” tells me something beautiful about you: you haven’t given up. Despite the pain, despite the weariness, despite the fear that this is all there is some part of you is still reaching toward the possibility of healing, of joy, of a life that feels worth living.
That reaching is holy. That question is sacred. That flicker of hope, however small, is evidence of your incredible resilience.
Your tender heart that feels so much pain? That same heart has an infinite capacity for joy, for love, for wonder. The depth of your pain is actually a testament to the depth of your ability to feel, to care, to love. And when better comes and it will come you’ll experience it with the same intensity that you’re feeling this difficulty now.
A Promise from Someone Who Knows
I’m writing this to you from a place where laughter comes easily again, where mornings hold possibility instead of dread, where I can be genuinely excited about simple things like new books and warm coffee and conversations with friends. Where I can feel sad about difficult things without drowning in that sadness.
I’m not writing from a place of perfection. I still have hard days, still feel overwhelmed sometimes, still carry tender spots that need extra care. But I’m writing from a place of wholeness, of integration, of knowing that I can weather whatever comes because I’ve learned to trust in my own resilience and in life’s capacity for renewal.
This is what I want you to know: the you that you’re becoming, the you that’s being shaped by walking through this difficulty with courage and grace, is going to be someone incredible. Someone with deep compassion, unshakeable inner strength, and a profound appreciation for joy precisely because you know what it’s like to live without it for a while.
You’re not just going to get through this you’re going to grow through this. And the person you become in the process of healing is going to look back at this version of you with so much love and pride for not giving up, for keeping going, for asking “does it get better?” instead of accepting that this pain was all there would ever be.
For Right Now, In This Moment
While you’re waiting for better to arrive, please be so gentle with yourself. Drink water when you remember to. Eat something that tastes good when you can. Step outside and feel the sun on your face, even if only for a minute. Reach out to someone who loves you, even if it’s just to say “I’m struggling today.”
Rest when you need to rest. Cry when you need to cry. Feel angry if you need to feel angry. All of your emotions are valid, all of your responses to pain are understandable, and none of them make you weak or broken or too much.
You are exactly where you need to be in your healing journey, even if it doesn’t feel like it. You are doing better than you think you are, even if it doesn’t feel like it. You are loved more than you know, even if it doesn’t feel like it.
And yes, my tender-hearted friend it gets better. Not perfect, but better. Not without effort, but with grace. Not immediately, but inevitably.
Your heart knows how to heal. Your spirit knows how to soar. Your life knows how to bloom again.
Trust the process. Trust your resilience. Trust that better is on its way to you, even now.
With All the Love and Hope You Deserve,
Someone Who Asked the Same Question and Found the Answer 💕
📖 For Your Healing Journey
If these words touched something tender in your heart, if you’re ready to explore what “better” might look like for you, The Worthiness Workbook: A Healing Journey Back to “I Am Enough” offers gentle guidance for those walking through dark valleys toward light.
It’s filled with compassionate exercises for when hope feels far away, tools for being tender with yourself during difficult seasons, and reminders that your worth isn’t diminished by your pain – it’s revealed through your courage to keep going despite it.
Because getting better isn’t about becoming perfect. It’s about remembering that you’re already enough, exactly as you are, even in your struggle.
You can find the workbook here when you’re ready for this gentle journey toward healing. 🌱
Are you walking through a difficult season right now? Have you asked this question in your own dark moments? Please know that your struggle is seen, your pain is valid, and your courage in continuing to hope is inspiring. You’re not alone in this. 🤗
