I Don’t Know How to Feel

People ask me all the time: “How do you feel?”

I wish I had an answer. I wish I could wrap this season of my life into a neat emotional package and hand it over. But I don’t know how to feel. I’m managing a lot.

My wife is in a coma-like state. She’s been unresponsive for a week now, monitored by neurologists and infectious disease specialists. Just days ago, she was home—still recovering from brain surgery, still surviving. She’s survived seizures, fungal meningitis, pneumonia, blood clots. Four years of fighting. Four years of adapting. Four years of watching the woman I love endure more than most could imagine.

And I’ve become a caregiver. Not by choice, but by necessity. I can’t retire. I manage the household. I supervise the aides. I coordinate with doctors, nurses, therapists. I answer questions I never wanted to be asked. I’ve lost sleep. I’ve felt anger, depression, frustration. I’ve learned to meditate. I’ve gone to therapy. I’ve been told to sleep, to exercise, to check in with my own doctor. I do what I can to stay afloat.

And somehow, I still play guitar.

It’s the gigs. It’s the technique. It’s the study of legends. It’s the branding, the outreach, the hustle. Music is my lifeline. It’s the one place I still feel like myself.

But the anxiety is long-term.

I’ve been shot at. I’ve dodged terrorist bombs. I’ve been knocked down by a professional boxer. I’ve been swept away by the Pacific. All terrifying. All over in minutes. Caregiving? It’s relentless. It’s the fear of giving the wrong medicine. Missing the right moment. Causing harm by accident. It’s being responsible for everything—bills, appointments, home care, safety, dignity.

It’s losing your wife even though she’s still here.

It’s grieving with your children over the life that used to be.

It’s loneliness. It’s strangers in your home. It’s trusting people with your partner and your possessions. It’s watching your faith get tested, again and again.

And it’s learning that therapy isn’t a cure-all.

Sometimes the more you know, the heavier it gets.

You realize how fragile life is.

You realize how losing friends and family changes how you feel about tomorrow.

So when people ask me how I feel, I don’t know what to say.

I feel everything.

I feel nothing.

I feel like I’m surviving.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

P.S.

Well-meaning folks often say, “The Lord won’t give you more than you can stand.” I know they mean comfort. But that’s not quite what Scripture says.

1 Corinthians 10:13 speaks of temptation, not suffering: “God is faithful; He will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, He will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.”

Suffering is a different story. Jesus said plainly, “In this world you will have tribulation.” And tribulation is real—it’s the long nights, the unanswered questions, the weight that doesn’t lift.

But suffering isn’t pointless. It produces endurance. It shapes character. It teaches hope. It refines us and reveals God’s power in ways comfort never could. We’re not called to be surprised by suffering—we’re called to entrust ourselves to God through it.

Even Jesus suffered. And because He did, we know we’re not alone. One day, all pain and sorrow will be wiped away. But until then, we walk through the fire with faith—not because it’s easy, but because He’s with us.