Mirrors

Recently, I found out about a young family member’s mental health diagnosis—not in the sudden upheaval of an emergency, but in the most mundane of ways. It came over a tentative conversation at the kitchen table, after a much-anticipated psychiatric evaluation. No drama, no breaking down—just a calm recitation of symptoms and findings that stripped away uncertainty but left something nameless in its place.

Having a confirmed diagnosis brought a peculiar sense of relief, like a puzzle piece clicking into place. Yet, at the same time, it was as if something between us—the shared language of who we’ve always been to each other—had become foreign, unfamiliar.

So, I did what I always do: I sought refuge in knowledge. I ordered books upon books, assembling a library of clinical studies and memoirs, hoping to become an armchair expert, hoping that knowledge might bridge the growing gap.

Maybe if I could chart the pathways of the mind, map its frailties like a navigator searching for the edge of the world, I could find a way back to that familiarity. But there’s a painful simplicity in realizing that there is no fixing what cannot be fixed—only living through what cannot be understood.

Orthodox Christianity speaks of theosis—the path to becoming one with God, a journey of both light and shadow. It’s a journey made not in the absence of suffering, but through it, by confronting the mysteries that refuse to be solved. In this understanding, mental illness is not a moral failing or a sign of spiritual deficiency. It is a reminder of our shared human frailty. From an Orthodox perspective, suffering is something to be approached with reverence and quiet awe—a place where grace might unfold. In this faith, there is space for the fragmented mind, space for prayers that feel too small, and for the heart that feels too broken.

It’s true that for my young family member, it will be hard to carry this diagnosis in a world where mental illness is still demonized and misunderstood. But Albert S. Rossi, in Becoming a Healing Presence, offers a truth that lingers: “Suffering can be a form of prayer. Sometimes all we can do is nod in God’s direction, wordless and emotionless. Even such a nod toward God is a call to Him, a prayer.” Maybe that’s what this is—an unspoken prayer. Not a cry for help or a plea for deliverance, but a gesture that says: I see You, God. I don’t understand this. But I am still here.

So, what does it mean to hold space for someone you love when the world itself seems to shift beneath you? It means learning to see through the smoke and mirrors of what is expected and what is real. It means understanding that none of us are whole in the ways we think we should be. It means lighting a candle with trembling hands and believing—even when it feels impossible—that grace flows unseen through every crack and fracture.

Faith teaches that God does not turn away from our brokenness. He does not avert his gaze from the mind that falters or the heart that sinks under its own weight. Instead, He descends into the dark places, takes up residence in the silence, and waits there with us.

It’s not the kind of miracle I used to pray for—not the erasing of pain or the mending of what’s been broken. It’s something quieter, softer: the assurance that we are not alone, that every fragile step, every faltering word, every tear shed in the dark is hallowed ground. And that, perhaps, is the real miracle—that we are held together, not by our strength or sanity, but by a love that endures when all else falls away.