Dante wrote in Inferno:
“Midway along the journey of our life
I woke to find myself in a dark wood,
For I had wandered off from the straight path.
How hard it is to tell what it was like,
This wood of wilderness, savage and stubborn
(the thought of it brings back all of my old fears),
a bitter place! Death could scarce be bitterer.
But if I would show the good that came of it
I must talk about things other than the good.”
There’s something very familiar about Dante’s words. “Midway along the journey of our life, I woke to find myself in a dark wood…” He doesn’t say he chose the dark wood. He says he woke to it. That resonates deeply.
I didn’t plan to lose my way. I didn’t mark a day on the calendar and decide to detour from the straight path. But somewhere, gradually, incrementally, I drifted. And then, one day, I looked up—and there I was, in the thicket. Disoriented. Spiritually numb. Afraid to admit how lost I really felt. Just like Dante, I had to wake up to the fact that I had wandered far from where I was meant to be.
“How hard it is to tell what it was like…” Yes. Because to speak of the dark wood—of sin, of shame, of lost years and wasted gifts—requires me to revisit parts of my story that still sting. It’s painful to admit how far I fell. And yet, I can’t talk about grace without naming the mess. I can’t speak of restoration without owning the ruin.
Dante calls it “a wood of wilderness, savage and stubborn…” That stubbornness isn’t just in the world—it was in me. A refusal to surrender. A willfulness that masked fear. The lies I told myself were survival tactics, but they became shackles. I kept moving but not progressing, circling the same regrets, rationalizations, and internal scripts that kept me from returning to the light.
And yet—this is the part that still humbles me—God didn’t leave me there. I didn’t climb out on my own. If there’s anything true about grace, it’s that it meets you where you are, not where you pretend to be. But only if you are willing to receive it. The dark wood broke me open. It stripped away illusions I was clinging to. And from that place, something new began.
Dante says, “But if I would show the good that came of it, I must talk about things other than the good.” That line holds the key. Because the good—redemption, reconciliation, renewal—is coming. But it came through the pain, not around it. Through confession, not cover-up. Through mercy, not merit.
So today, as I look back on my own “dark wood,” I feel both grief and gratitude. Grief for what was lost, for who I hurt, for how far I ran. But also gratitude—deep, heartfelt gratitude—for the mercy that found me there, for the path I’m on now, for the clarity I couldn’t have found without the struggle.
The dark wood isn’t the end of the story. It’s the threshold. And I’m learning, slowly and daily, to walk forward from there—not perfectly, but honestly. One step at a time, toward the light.
