When You Feel Like No One Knows Your Pain

There are losses that leave you speechless.

A friend of mine lost both of her parents to suicide her father when she was a teenager, and her mother years later. When she told me about her mom’s death, I didn’t know what to say. How do you endure that kind of pain? What words could possibly help?

And yet, she kept calling. She invited me into her grief. She asked for prayer. She confessed anger and confusion. She let me minister to her, even though I had never walked her exact road.

Her humility exposed something in me.

I realized how rarely I let people into my own pain. I had quietly believed that unless someone had experienced exactly what I had, they could not understand me and therefore could not help me.

It felt safer to keep my suffering private. Holier, even. Stronger.

But that instinct was not strength. It was isolation.

The Temptation to Pull Away

After my own son’s death, my husband and I navigated deep marital strain woven tightly into my grief. There were layers of sorrow I felt I couldn’t explain. It all seemed too complicated, too vulnerable.

So I withdrew.

I convinced myself that no one could understand. I told myself I was tired of platitudes. In truth, I had grown tired of hearing anything at all. I did not want counsel. I did not want correction. I did not want awkward attempts at comfort.

I wanted to be left alone.

But in pulling away, I cut myself off from one of God’s primary means of grace: His people.

Hebrews 10:24–25 urges believers not to neglect meeting together, but to encourage one another. That command is not suspended in suffering. In fact, it becomes even more vital.

Suffering tempts us to build walls. Community requires us to open doors.

When Pain Hardens the Heart

Grief does not automatically sanctify us. Sometimes it exposes us.

Over the years, I have seen how pain, like sin, can harden my heart. It can blind me to my own pride. It can subtly convince me that my suffering excuses my reactions.

There were seasons when I was more concerned with being admired for my endurance than being rescued from my sin.

Scripture tells us plainly: “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). Even Job described as righteous eventually repented after speaking beyond his understanding (Job 42:5–6).

Suffering humbled him.

It has humbled me too.

I once read how Joni Eareckson Tada, paralyzed as a teenager, wrestled with bitterness and complaining. She did not excuse those sins because of her disability. Instead, she asked God to refine her through her pain.

That perspective reshaped my own.

My Greatest Problem Is Not My Suffering

It sounds almost jarring to say it, but it is true: my greatest problem on earth is not my suffering it is my sin.

When Jesus healed the paralytic in Luke 5:17–26, He first forgave his sins. Why? Because spiritual healing outweighed physical restoration.

Our deepest need is reconciliation with God.

Suffering often peels back the surface, revealing impatience, irritability, resentment reactions we might otherwise ignore. One morning, after journaling angrily about how misunderstood I felt, I read 1 Corinthians 13:4–5:

“Love is patient and kind… it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful.”

The Spirit pressed those words into my heart. I had been impatient. I had been unkind. I had insisted on my own way.

It is one of Satan’s most subtle tactics in suffering: persuading us that our primary need is to be understood and admired, rather than forgiven and transformed.

When One Member Suffers

First Peter 5:8 warns that the devil prowls like a roaring lion. He loves to use suffering as an entry point. He whispers:

No one understands you.
No one can help you.
You are justified in your bitterness.
Stay alone.

And so we lock the doors.

Friends, unsure what to say, begin to hesitate. They fear saying the wrong thing. Eventually, some stop knocking not because they do not care, but because they feel unwelcome.

Meanwhile, we grow more entrenched in isolation.

But 1 Corinthians 12 reminds us that we are one body in Christ. When one member suffers, all suffer together. The body only functions when each part stays connected.

An eye cannot say to the hand, “I have no need of you.”

Likewise, we cannot say to the church, “You cannot help me.”

Letting People In

Community is rarely perfect. People will say awkward things. They may misunderstand details of your story. They cannot fully feel your pain.

But they can bring Christ to you.

Second Corinthians 1:3–4 says God “comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction.”

Any affliction.

That means someone who has known anxiety may comfort someone grieving. Someone who has walked through illness may speak hope to someone facing loss. The common thread is not identical experience it is shared comfort from God.

The Holy Spirit gives wisdom in the moment (Matthew 10:19). He can use a simple prayer, a shared meal, or a quiet presence to minister deeply.

But we must let Him.

God Knows and Sends His People

There is profound comfort in knowing that God fully understands our pain.

Psalm 23:4 promises that He walks with us through the valley of the shadow of death.
Psalm 56:8 says He collects our tears.
Psalm 139:1–4 reminds us He knows our thoughts before we speak them.

You are never alone before Him.

But often, the God who sees your tears chooses to comfort you through His church.

In seasons of suffering, we must resist the urge to retreat into self-sufficiency. Instead, we lean toward Christ and toward His people.

We offer grace when others stumble over their words.
We assume the best in their intentions.
We invite them in, even when it feels risky.

And in that vulnerability, God does something beautiful.

From Isolation to Humble Dependence

When we isolate, we may feel momentarily protected. But over time, isolation deepens pain. Community, though imperfect, becomes the soil where healing grows.

God does not waste suffering. As we open our lives to Him and to His people, He shapes us into humbler, gentler, more compassionate followers of Christ.

You may feel like no one knows your pain.

But Jesus does.

And He has given you a body — His body — so that you do not have to carry it alone.

If this encouraged you, consider sharing it with someone who feels isolated in their grief, or subscribe to our newsletter for more reflections on finding hope in suffering.