Sometimes, All I Have Left is a Hallelujah
From the time of my earliest core memory—fidgeting with the tape on my diaper, watching my mother cry after a fight with my father—I learned something without anyone ever saying it out loud.
I had to be the strongest.
The fixer.
The defender.
The voice for the voiceless.
The brave one when someone else was falling apart.
I lived most of my life as the fixer — the one who runs toward what’s broken.
There’s a Coldplay song that feels like a mirror to that instinct, and maybe to the cost of it too.
And not just strong — perfect.
Perfect in what I said.
Perfect in what I thought.
Perfect in what I touched, achieved, carried.
Because for me, attempt was never an option.
Only success was acceptable. Only holding it together.
There’s a scene from a Spider-Man movie—Spider-Man 3, I think—
where the man who becomes Sandman is alone after the accident.
He isn’t a villain yet. He’s just… broken.
He tries to stand.
His body collapses into sand.
He gathers himself and tries again.
And again.
I remember sitting in the theater, crying. Not because he would later become dangerous—but because I recognized him.
That endless cycle of pulling yourself together just enough to try again.
The quiet hope that this time you’ll stay standing.
The exhaustion no one sees when all they notice later is the damage.
I feel like that all the time.
And some days, after all the fixing and holding and defending—
after the strength runs out and perfection finally fails—
all I have left is a hallelujah.
Not the triumphant kind.
The whispered one.
Often, the wailing one.
The kind that doesn’t fix anything but still refuses to disappear.
There’s a song by Brandon Lake called “Gratitude.”
And when I can’t muster faith or clarity or answers,
I cling to that idea—that sometimes praise isn’t confidence.
Sometimes it’s survival.
Sometimes, hallelujah is the sound of someone still gathering themselves, grain by grain, trying to stand again.
I spent most of my life believing strength was my responsibility. Perfectionism meant praise, which in turn meant love. I still struggle with letting go.
But Jesus says His burden is light — and I wonder how much of my exhaustion came from carrying what was never mine to hold.
And I know He has been meeting me every time I fell apart — waiting for me to stop trying to stand on my own.