The Black Cloud Nobody Sees

There is a black cloud over my life that I don’t think anyone around me truly understands.

I’ve tried to explain it. I’ve cried. I’ve talked. I’ve reached out. I’ve sent messages when I didn’t have the strength to say the words out loud. I’ve tried being direct, and I’ve tried dropping hints, hoping somebody would recognize that underneath my “I’m here” was really a woman saying, “Please see me. Please hear me. I am struggling.”

And somehow, I still feel unHEARD. Some thought they were helping by telling me, “You’re strong.” Some reiterated that they couldn’t imagine what I was going through, as if their inability to understand meant there was nothing more they could offer. And some simply left me on read.

Maybe my grief made them uncomfortable. Maybe they were carrying things I couldn’t see, too. I can understand all of those possibilities and still admit that it hurt me. Because I wasn’t asking anyone to fix me.

Losing Jahmya changed something inside of me that words will never completely explain. I didn’t just lose someone I loved. I lost my daughter. A piece of my heart I built my entire life around is no longer physically here, and every day I have to figure out how to live with that reality.

People see me working, being a mother, the Foundation, books, events, smiles, encouraging posts, faith, butterflies, flowers, and everything I have tried to grow from the most painful season of my life.

But sometimes I wonder if anybody see “Jamara underneath all of that?” The woman who gets tired of being STRONG. The mother who still wants her daughter. The person who sometimes needs somebody else to notice that the black cloud has gotten especially dark.

And lately, I’ve had to admit something that is difficult to say out loud. I barely have strength left for myself, let alone enough to keep showing up for my children the way I want to and the marriage I chose but didn’t choose me.

I love my children deeply. That has never changed. But love does not erase exhaustion. Love does not automatically refill an empty body, a tired mind, or a heart worn down by grief.

I am mentally exhausted from trying to process what happened. Emotionally exhausted from carrying pain that never seems to take a day off. Physically exhausted from continuing to move, work, parent, respond, and function when a part of me wants to stop.

Sometimes I am present in the room, but I feel far away inside myself. Sometimes I am doing what needs to be done while quietly wondering how much longer I can keep pushing through. I be various places, amongst various people yet still feel sooooo ALONE.

My children deserve a mother who has more to give, and I am afraid they can feel how depleted I am. But being exhausted does not mean I love them less.

Needing help does not mean I am failing them.

Admitting that I am running on empty does not make me a bad mother. It means I am human and grieving.

Being brushed off, told I’m strong, reminded that someone can’t imagine my pain, or left on read when I finally find the courage to say that I’m struggling does something to me. It makes the darkness start whispering things that pain wants me to believe. That nobody really understands, nobody wants to hear it, and maybe there is no purpose in continuing to pour so much of myself into everybody and everything.

But I have to separate what pain tells me from what is actually true.

Being left on read does not determine the value of my life. Someone not knowing how to hold my grief does not mean my grief is too much. Someone telling me I’m strong does not mean I should have to carry everything alone. Being exhausted does not mean I am incapable of loving or caring for my children. Needing support does not mean I have nothing left to offer.

Someone failing to recognize my cry does not mean my cry wasn’t worth answering. And feeling purposeless in a painful moment does not mean my life has no purpose.

Tonight I don’t need to figure out my entire purpose. I don’t need another lesson about being strong. I simply just want to be heard. I AM HURTING.

I feel alone.

I am mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted.

I barely have strength for myself, and I am struggling to keep showing up for my children and the people around me.

That’s my truth right now. I still believe in God, but faith doesn’t erase the black cloud. Some days faith looks less like everything is well and more like whispering, “God, I don’t know how to carry today. Please stay close while I do.” Psalm 34:18 says that the Lord is close to the brokenhearted.

Today, I need closeness.

Not explanations.

Not clichés.

Not somebody telling me how strong I am.

Just close.

And I need practical help, too. I need people who will check in, listen without trying to fix me, LITERALLY sit with me, help me rest, and remind me that I do not have to be the only one holding everything together. I need support that allows me to care for my children without pretending I am not exhausted.

So if you’re reading this while carrying your own invisible black cloud, I won’t tell you to simply get over it. I won’t tell you somebody else has it worse. And I won’t make your pain compete for space.

I’ll simply tell you what I desperately need to remember myself. Being unseen by people does not make you insignificant. Being exhausted does not make you unworthy. Needing help does not make you weak.

Sometimes the black cloud makes it difficult to see anything beyond today.

So today is enough.

One breath is enough.

One honest message is enough.

Asking someone to sit with you is enough.

Resting when you can is enough.

And for now, so am I.