When Darkness Strikes

Glowworms in the Dark: How I Keep Finding the Light

A note before you begin: what follows comes from one of the hardest seasons of my life, several years ago, when I was still in an abusive marriage. I want you to know from the very first line how the story turns out—because I've now been divorced for years, I'm remarried to a truly wonderful man, and I am safe and well. I'm sharing this from solid ground, for anyone who is standing in the dark right now and needs to know the light comes back. It does.

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Have you ever walked through a tunnel so dark you needed a light just to see your own hand? Have you ever been deep in a cave when the guide flips off the lamps? It's an eerie, cold feeling to be somewhere so dark you can't find anything around you.

Years ago, my husband and I traveled to northern New Zealand, where you can float into the caves along an underground river. We sat with our feet dangling in the water as the guides turned out every light. I was terrified. And then—slowly—the darkness filled with light. Tiny glowworms clung to the ceiling above us, glowing like a whole night sky spread over our heads. It was surreal and beautiful, and it pulled me right out of the fear that had gripped me only moments before.

I've thought about those glowworms often. Because life keeps teaching me the same lesson: even in the deepest dark, light shows up. Sometimes you just have to wait for your eyes to find it.

The magic puppy

In college, a professor of mine was teaching about the statistics on children from divorced and abusive homes—how often those kids struggle later in life. After class, I told Dr. Scoresby a little about my own story: a divorced family, an abusive stepfather, and how I could say "yes" to so many of the risk factors he'd listed. And yet I'd had a happy life. Good friends. Strong faith. I'd made it into a top school. I didn't drink or smoke.

He looked at me and said, "Let me tell you a story."

He told me about a little girl playing in a graveyard with friends. She lost track of time, and suddenly found herself alone as night fell. She was so frightened she couldn't move. She said a prayer for help—and when she opened her eyes, a little puppy was bouncing at her feet, begging for her attention. Delighted, she forgot her fear entirely and walked home happy, the puppy at her side. She left it on the porch and ran to get her mother. When they came back, the puppy had vanished.

"You must have had a magic puppy," Dr. Scoresby told me.

I've turned that over in my mind for years. Who were my magic puppies—the ones who appeared and pulled my focus off the pain long enough to keep walking? A role model. My faith. My dance teachers. My church teachers. Maybe I had many.

What hurt more than the abuse

Not long ago, an old high school friend asked me, gently, "Steffanie, did you ever see a counselor for what happened to you back then?" I was confused. She reminded me of things I had genuinely forgotten—how she'd once seen the bruises across my body and couldn't believe a person could do that to another person, how she'd convinced me to show her father, who then made a phone call. I didn't remember any of it.

What I do remember is my little brother screaming at my stepfather, his face red, until I was more frightened for him than for myself. So I faked a cry. The abuse stopped instantly—because that was what the abuser had wanted all along. He was trying to break my spirit.

The next day, I went to finish my lifeguard certification. I got there early and slipped into the pool before anyone else arrived. But eventually I had to climb out, and everyone stared in horror. Someone asked what had happened. I just shrugged. "I bruise really easily," I said. My friend Laurie's response has stayed with me for life: "Like hell you do."

The biggest lesson I took from that time was a strange one: people knowing about the abuse hurt me more than the abuse itself.

It took counseling and many years, but I eventually reached a place where I could remember it all and feel—nothing. I could look my abuser in the face and no longer feel hate. For a long time, that hate had been poisoning me, seeping into my other relationships. Reading the New Testament and letting the healing of Christ into my heart was the turning point. The peace came quickly; being able to look back without pain took years. But it came.

The drive

I'm telling you all of this because a few years later, the darkness came back—hard.

I was driving a long way to see a doctor, using the hours alone to try to sort out some terrifying health problems and some impossible choices. And somewhere on that drive, a despair I hadn't felt in over a decade rose up and nearly swallowed me. My mind started whispering the oldest, cruelest lie there is: that I was worthless, that my children and husband would be better off without me. The pull toward giving up was so strong it scared me. I felt like an addict craving escape from pain.

I want to be very honest that I came frighteningly close to the edge of that despair. And I want to be just as honest that the lie was exactly that—a lie. My children did not need me gone. I was not worthless. But in that moment, I couldn't feel the truth. I could only feel the dark.

So I did the one thing I could: I reached for a light.

I pulled over and answered a call from my friend Jen. "Girl, talk to me," she said. I couldn't. A wave of tears broke and I just sobbed. And Jen—beautiful Jen, carrying her own heavy health struggles—stayed right there with me. "Sister, I'm here for you," she said. "I've got you. You've got this." She breathed with me through it, like a coach helping someone through hard contractions. We cried. We shared. She was my magic puppy that day. So was another friend, Adam, who called soon after with a simple "How's your heart?" and joked and coached me gently through the ache.

Choosing into the pain instead of numbing it

Later, I stopped at a grocery store, hollowed out and exhausted. I found myself pacing the aisle where the alcohol was, staring at bottles I couldn't even name, remembering a friend who'd said he liked how drinking made him feel. But alcoholism runs in my family, and as a girl I made a promise I've never broken: not one taste, ever. I wouldn't risk it. I shook off the thought and went looking for something better.

Gluten-free cookies caught my eye. Cheesecake, too. I almost gave in—and then I stopped, put them back, and chose almond butter, guacamole, peas, and cauliflower instead. It sounds so small, but walking out with those snacks felt like finishing a marathon. Because I had refused to numb myself. If I was going to climb out of this, I had to actually feel it—not medicate it, not even with a cookie.

Back in the car, I sipped my water, ate my little victory snacks, and felt something shift: a desire to fight. To get up off the mat and step back into the ring. I called my coach—Coach Ron—and even though it was Sunday, he answered. I told him what my body was doing and that I wanted to work with him on a real plan instead of chasing a quick fix. He'd helped me before, back when Lyme disease had left me unable to do a single push-up, and had walked with me all the way to dancing with a university dance company.

"Absolutely," he said. "When can you come see me?"

And for the first time in days, a little light started to seep back in. Hope.

What helped me when the darkness struck

If you're in a dark place, or if it hits you out of nowhere, here are the things that have carried me. None of them are quick fixes—they're just the next step, and then the next.

Redirect your thoughts. Remember the magic puppy? Mine were Jen and Adam—people who reminded me to have courage, that good days come back, that I have unseen help too. I blasted music. I sang. I cried. I steered my mind off the pain and off the future that scared me, and I stayed present. Just this hour. Just this step.

Wait for the light. Some moments were so heavy it felt like my heart might stop. But we can't give in to the belief that we'll be in the dark forever. Keep searching for answers, keep humbling yourself, keep listening for guidance. The glowworms always came.

Choose what heals over what numbs. For me, inflammation makes everything harder—when my body is inflamed, my mind can't process, and the darkness deepens. Gluten and dairy hit me especially hard. In my own experience, no amount of prayer or scripture could reach me until I cleared the inflammation out; once I did, the peace I'd been reaching for could finally land. So I choose nourishment over numbing, again and again.

Reach for comfort and calm. In hard seasons, I lean on soothing rituals—a warm bath, my essential oils, the aromas that help me relax and breathe and settle enough to think. They don't fix everything, but they're a gentle anchor when my nervous system is screaming.

Do the next right thing. I once watched Oprah Winfrey tell a graduating class to do three things: have a dream for your life, serve others, and do the right thing—and she said you'll know it's the right thing when you feel peace. A wise woman I once met told me the very same: you always know it's right if you feel peace. When everything in me wanted to go a different direction, that peace was my compass.

Where I am now

I made it through that season. And then I made it out of far more than that season—out of the marriage, into safety, into a life with a good man who is gentle with me. The darkness that felt permanent did not last. It never does.

If you're in it right now, please hear me: keep taking it one step at a time. You will never get out if you stay frozen in the fear. I pray God sends you a magic puppy to comfort. I pray you'll choose into the pain instead of running from it—and that you'll open your eyes to the answers meant just for you, waiting on your path.

And if the darkness ever gets close to the edge—if you start to think the people you love would be better off without you—please reach out to a real person that very moment, not later. In the U.S. you can call or text 988 any time, day or night, and someone will stay with you. Tell a friend. Tell someone who loves you. Let them be your magic puppy. You are not a burden, and you are not alone.

You can do all things through Christ, who strengthens you.

With much love,

Steffanie