Abyss v Wilderness

A few years ago I wrote about an Abyss of Despair that was ever present in my life. No matter what I did. Where I went. This feeling of an abyss would be there. No matter what success I found, achievements made, or failures I committed. This abyss was looming around me.

I have no clue where the journal that contains those words is located nor do I recall much of what I wrote. But it’s a topic that has stuck with me for a long time. I occasionally try to write down the feelings caused by such an abyss but the words never seem to be coherent. Which makes sense, due to it being an abyss obviously. There is no doubt that psychology has some sort of identity for this or study. But it has no place in this entry.

The Abyss of Despair—it follows. A shadow, ever-present, lingering at the edge of existence. Sometimes it stalks from behind, urging the feet to move faster. Occasionally settling in front, paralyzing any movement. Other times, it looms ahead—a yawning void, whispering, waiting, daring one to step inside. And then comes the moment when the abyss says, “You must choose—to keep fleeing, or to enter and explore.”

Because when a human ventures into the abyss, in the way that cracks their very soul—it is as if they are brought to the edge of their being, to a precipice where all illusions fall away.

This journey into the abyss is not a passing fever. It settles in the bones. It suffocates a room—not with weight, but with thought. Endless, spiraling thought that devours reason and sanity. Coiled like smoke, impossible to grasp or clear. Causing hands to clutch the chest, or press against the temples, as if the storm inside could be restrained by flesh alone. Then whispers escape: What is it that I fear? Why do I fear? Is it myself? Some distant version of me? All my sins? Is despair all there is?

Endless whispers.

But the questions, when spoken aloud, feel foolish. Weak. Pitiful. The mirror reflects a ghost—a coward drowning in silence, brooding philosophies, and questions without answers.

And so begins the descent: the endless peeling back of the self, searching for some unshakable core—only to find, perhaps, there is none. The abyss reveals everything: every wound, every longing, every lie we’ve told ourselves. And yet, the pursuit is not the problem. There’s no shame in craving more than the hollow truths the world hands out. No guilt in rejecting the shallow comforts others mistake for meaning.

But what happens when the hunger for truth becomes its own torment? When the digging never ends, and the search for purpose becomes a grave?

Nietzsche writes, “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that he does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”

Settling in the abyss bears its own peril. Whether by avoidance or immersion, one risks being devoured by it. When sorrow festers into bitterness, or when the thirst for meaning becomes an obsession, identity warps. Purpose turns to fixation. The monster, then, is not only what we fight—but what we become. An untamed monster.

And yet, I’ve come to believe something else too. I used to think the abyss was stalking me. Haunting me. That it was proof something inside me was broken beyond repair. But what I once believed to be an abyss turned out to be a wilderness.

The abyss breaks you. The wilderness remakes you. One swallows, the other sanctifies.

The abyss was collapse; the wilderness, formation. And sometimes, they are the same place—just seen with different eyes. The abyss had no purpose. One can’t wrestle with the truth, because it contained no truth. The wilderness is chaotic, sure. No laws. No structure. But here, truth can be found. It can be wrested with. Not to defy, but to gain from it. Yes, you have to crawl through thick undergrowth. Cut. Bleed. Build. But that is how wisdom, knowledge, patience, understanding, strength, courage, and endurance come from.

The challenge, then, is to endure suffering without letting it redefine you in destructive ways. To allow the pain to forge strength, not fracture spirit. The abyss will always gaze back. The only question is: will you meet its stare with resilience—or surrender?

And yet—it is in the breaking, in the unbearable pain, that something unspeakable is born. A strength not taught, not learned, but forged in the fire of doubt and suffering. Not the strength of heroes or martyrs, but of the one who has tasted their own nothingness—been crushed beneath the weight of silence—and still stands.

Emerging from such darkness brings no immediate relief. The world doesn’t feel warm. The sunlight doesn’t soothe—it pierces. Even the air feels foreign, like something stolen back from the depths. And yet, the smallest joys—a leaf crunching underfoot, the stillness of morning—cut through the hardened soul. Not because they are soft, but because they are real.

What is real is terrifying. We are so accustomed to living under a self imposed holy personality. But when asked to define holiness, it’s a cheap fabrication. Nothing more than moral performance. Hollow virtue. Nothing that can survive refining.

Yes, it gets better. But only a fool would say that lightly. Because the one brought to their knees at the foot of the Cross understands: joy and suffering are intertwined—inseparable. One gives meaning to the other. A beautiful paradox.

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The Abyss of Despair – When Darkness Follows

• Psalm 88:6, 18

      • Lamentations 3:17–20

The Wilderness – A Place of Formation and Purpose

      • Hosea 2:14–15

      • Deuteronomy 8:2–3

The Restless Search for Meaning

      • Ecclesiastes 1:17–18

      • 2 Timothy 3:7

The Breaking and the Remaking

     • Psalm 34:18

      • 2 Corinthians 4:8–10

      • Romans 5:3–5

The Cross and the Paradox of Joy in Suffering

      • Hebrews 12:2–3

     • John 16:20–22