One of the hardest parts about the ache is not just that it exists, but that we don’t quite know what to call it.
We are fluent in productivity language. (Especially coming fresh off January’s New Year, New Me energy.) We can name deadlines, diagnoses, goals, and failures. But the ache is…slippery. It doesn’t always arrive with a clear cause. It’s not always grief, though it can contain grief. It’s not always anxiety, though it can feel like dread. Sometimes it’s just a quiet dissatisfaction that settles in the body and refuses resolution.
So, like any modern person would, we rush past it.
We label it “being tired” or “ungrateful” or “just a phase.” We scroll. We snack (God bless potato chips). We spiritualize the pain away. We tell ourselves (or other people) to be positive, to get perspective, to remember how much worse it could be.
And then Lent arrives.
Lent, inconveniently, slows us down long enough to notice allllll that we’ve been avoiding.
The dis-ease. How unsettled we are when we look at the headlines. The avoidance of that tenderest part of us.
Lucky for us, Lent doesn’t ask us to analyze the ache or fix it. It simply invites us to name it.
This naming can be an act of lament. Lament is prayer that does not require clarity, gratitude, or improvement—only honesty. This hurts. This is heavy. This is not what I hoped for. And we see lament all over the Psalms:
“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?” (Psalm 13:1)
“Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me?” (Psalm 42:5)
“Darkness is my closest friend.” (Psalm 88:18)
The Psalmists remind us that you don’t have to make the ache meaningful. You don’t have to learn from it. And you definitely don’t have to be grateful for it.
For now, it is enough to start with: I’m longing for something.
And may that be the beginning of prayer.
May you stop apologizing for what aches.
May the truth you name today be held gently—
not rushed, not corrected, not explained away.
What is one ache you’ve been minimizing or ignoring? How might it feel to name it without trying to fix it? Feel free to share in the comments if you feel comfortable. This is the kindest community on the internet.
I don't want to name this ache,
I don't want to face it 'cause
it feels like it's a grave mistake
to want to be that which I was.
It feels like an ingratitude
for all the blessings I've received.
It feels like I am being rude
to say I that in my heart I need
to walk once more across a room
without the metastatic pain,
to breathe without the rasp of doom,
to eat the foods I loved again,
to no longer have to play
the man, for even just one day.
I’m lonely in my marriage.