Drowning is Silent

I remember the first time I heard that phrase. I had never really thought about it before, but it was obviously true: drowning victims don’t make much noise.

The phrase was meant to bring awareness to adults watching children around water. People who are drowning don’t thrash and scream the way we imagine. They’re fighting for air. They can’t yell for help because they’re often below the surface, expending every ounce of strength just to stay alive.

That’s why lifeguards are trained to watch for drowning—not to sit with their faces buried in a book and one ear turned toward the water. It’s incredibly rare for someone to scream, “Help!” while drowning. A lifeguard’s job is to notice the signs and respond quickly.

Life can be like this, too.

Sometimes things come at you so fast that you begin to drown in a sea of emotions or circumstances. And just like real drowning, people don’t make much noise when they’re drowning in life. They try to brave the storm alone. They don’t cry out loudly enough for others to realize they’re going under.

I remember very specific times in my life when I felt like I was drowning.

Being a young mother was one of them. I had two children under the age of three and was pregnant with my third. I was completely overwhelmed—parenting toddlers who fought constantly, scraping together money to put food on the table, trying to be a wife, keep the house together, manage the budget, and still walk with Jesus.

It was brutally hard. No one seemed to have answers beyond “just keep going.” It was exhausting. It was depressing. There were moments when I didn’t know if I was going to make it through. Even now, I look back and I am proud that I survived that season.

Another time I remember feeling like I was drowning was after losing my daughter, Autumn.

I had no idea how to grieve in a healthy way—and I was still raising my other children. Each of them was in a new stage, so everything felt unfamiliar and demanding. My emotions lived right at the surface. I would cry if someone so much as looked at me with concern.

I was drowning, and no one seemed to noticed.

I held my head high. I showed up for my family. I plastered a smile on my face when people were around. But inside, I was suffocating under grief that I didn’t know how to process.

Truthfully, I only survived that season by the grace of God.

There have been too many moments to count when I felt like I was only seconds away from going under for good. And honestly, I think everyone has faced times like this. Days—or even years—when you don’t know if you’re going to make it.

Yet somehow, through perseverance, we break through. We come out stronger. More resilient. Weathered.

Everyone is hurting. Everyone carries pain. That’s part of this life. Life is just… hard.

There are times when we need to dig deep, work harder, and push through. There are things no one else can do for us. Those trials build strength. After all, we don’t gain resilience from lounging on the couch eating bonbons—we earn it.

But that’s not the kind of pain I want to focus on here.

There’s a category all its own—pain so far off the charts you can’t assign it a number. Pain that makes you want to give up. Pain that stretches you beyond your capacity, like being pulled apart when you’re not made of rubber.

This kind of pain leaves you feeling hopeless. It drains every ounce of fight from you. It’s the kind of pain and hopelessness where you aren’t even sure whether you care whether you live or die.

That is what I mean by drowning.

And this is not something you should try to survive alone.

Only you know if you’re drowning.

Have you lost your fight?
Have you sat down with no intention of ever getting back up?
Are you staring at the door, wondering if you might just walk away and never return—or worse?

If so, my dear, you are drowning—and you need help.

You must speak up.

You have to tell someone. You have to be honest.
Make. Some. Noise.

The people in your life need—and want—to know that you need help. You have no idea how devastated they would be to learn that they could have helped you, but you never said a word.

Most people aren’t ignoring you. They may be even drowning a little themselves. Unless you speak up, they may not notice you slipping under. But when you make noise, people will look up. They don’t want you to crash and burn. They want you to survive.

Maybe you need counseling.
Maybe you need medication.
Maybe you just need a night out to breathe again.

Whatever it is—say it.

Tell the people in your life what you’re thinking and feeling. Tell them what you need. And if they don’t respond, tell someone else. Keep telling until someone throws you the lifebuoy you need.

It is okay to ask for help.

You are not a burden.
You are loved.
Someone wants to help you.

You may have to search for that person—but I promise, they exist.

So make some noise.

And for those of you who aren’t drowning—be aware that others are.

If someone tells you they’re drowning, believe them.

If they say things like, “I don’t think I can go on,” or “I’m not going to make it this time,” take them seriously. Help them find a solution. And if you don’t have one, help them find someone who does.

Don’t stand on the shore and watch someone go under.

Ask what they need. Offer whatever you have in your hands. This is our responsibility. We are in this together.

And remember—sometimes drowning is silent.

If you see something, do something.

Pay attention to the swimmers around you. A timely word, a listening ear, a practical act of love may be the very thing that saves a life.

And please—don’t just shout, “You need to trust Jesus more,” from the shore. That’s no more helpful than yelling instructions at someone actively drowning.

Trusting Jesus is vital. He may be exactly who they need. But don’t use someone’s lack of trust as an excuse to walk away. Maybe they don’t know how to trust anymore. Maybe life has beaten it out of them.

Help restore it.

A doctor who diagnoses but offers no treatment is just as useless.

I carry a deep burden for drowning people—because I’ve been one. If I could, I’d put on a life vest and carry one to every sinking soul. But I can’t be everywhere.

What I can do—and what we can all do—is share the load.

You can be a lifeguard, too.

Pay attention. Toss the buoy. Jump in when needed.

And if right now you’re the one sinking—make some noise.

Because one day, when you’re on the other side, you may be the very person who could saves someone else.