I think I could stand anything, any suffering, only to be able to say and to repeat to myself every moment, ‘I exist.’ In thousands of agonies—I exist.
When I first read these words from Dostoyevsky, I wasn’t just struck by their meaning—I felt them. They brought me back to one of the darkest seasons of my life, when my mother’s Alzheimer’s swallowed her whole before we even had a diagnosis.
It was a time defined by helplessness. The American medical system, broken and indifferent, refused to help us in any real way, mostly arguing with me rather than hearing me, and offered little guidance. I found myself consumed by uncertainty, grief, and frustration. Yet in the midst of all of that, something deeper stirred.
“I exist,” I told myself. “In all this agony, I still exist.”
That realization didn’t erase the suffering, but it changed how I endured it. Dostoyevsky’s words helped me see that even in the worst moments, there is power in simply being, in holding onto existence itself.
The Power of “I Exist”
To exist is not a passive state—it’s an act of defiance. In a world where pain seeks to crush us, to say, “I exist,” is to claim a foothold against despair.
When my mother’s illness grew worse, the temptation to give in to hopelessness loomed large. There were days when my frustration with a broken system turned inward, leaving me questioning my own strength and worth. But in those moments, the truth of “I exist” became an anchor.
Even when I couldn’t fix her situation, I could stand in it. Even when I couldn’t find immediate answers, I could endure.
Existence itself became a statement of faith: I’m here, and that means something.
Faith in the Furnace
Coming across Dostoyevsky’s quote again made me reflect deeply on my faith. It’s easy to trust God when life is smooth, but in suffering, faith often feels less like a shield and more like a furnace—exposing, refining, and transforming us in ways we don’t always understand.
This reminds me of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the Bible. God didn’t stop them from being thrown into the blazing furnace when they refused to bow to Nebuchadnezzar’s idol. They stood firm, trusting that God would deliver them. And even if He didn’t, they wouldn’t bow (Daniel 3:17–18).
When they were thrown into the fire, God didn’t abandon them. He was there with them in the flames. Nebuchadnezzar himself saw a fourth figure walking in the fire, one who looked like “a son of the gods” (Daniel 3:25). Not only did they survive—they came out without a single hair singed or even the smell of smoke on them.
Like them, faith doesn’t always mean avoiding the furnace. Sometimes, it means stepping into it and trusting God to be there with us. Looking back now, I can clearly see that’s exactly what I did during those tremendously difficult last five years of my mother’s journey. Faith means trusting that even in the fire, God is working—refining us, shaping us, and revealing His power in ways we can’t yet fully comprehend.
In my own life, there have been many moments when I felt like I was in the fire. Watching my mother’s illness progress, navigating a broken system, and confronting my own helplessness—those were the most powerful of those moments. Most of the time, it all felt unbearable. But through it all, faith reminded me that I wasn’t alone.
The furnace didn’t consume me because God was there, walking with me. And while I couldn’t always see it at the time, I now understand that He was using the fire to refine me. It took being far on the other side of it to finally see it for what it was.
The Meaning Behind the Agony
Dostoyevsky’s words also made me confront the question of meaning. Why does existence matter, even in suffering? What’s the point of holding onto “I exist” when everything feels broken?
What I’ve come to realize is this: existence isn’t about what we do or achieve. It’s about being. It’s about the simple, profound act of standing in the agony and refusing to let it erase us.
For me, that’s where faith meets purpose. My suffering doesn’t have to make sense in the moment. What matters is that I trust God is working through it, that my existence has meaning even when I can’t see the full picture.
Dostoyevsky’s quote is more than a statement—it’s an invitation. It’s a call to stop running from suffering and instead lean into the truth of our existence.
I invite you to reflect:
What does it mean for me to say, “I exist,” in this moment?
How can I anchor my existence in faith, even when I don’t have answers?
Where might God be working in the furnace of my suffering?
Because even in the darkest seasons, your existence matters. It’s not meaningless. It’s not random. It’s part of a story that’s still unfolding.
Existence as Hope
To say, “I exist,” in suffering is not to ignore the pain. It’s to acknowledge it, stand in it, and trust that there’s more beyond it. It’s to believe that existence itself is a gift, even when it feels heavy.
The story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego reminds me that the furnace isn’t the end. It’s a place where faith is tested, but also where God shows up.
Dostoyevsky’s words remind me that existence is not just survival—it’s a declaration of hope. It’s the courage to believe that there’s purpose in the agony, that we are being refined, and that God is with us in every moment.
But this kind of faith—this ability to trust in the furnace—doesn’t happen overnight. It requires us to reflect and get introspective in prayer and meditation on a regular basis. It must become a habit to acknowledge our existence in that way, to regularly lean on God before life’s hardest moments hit.
Too often, we wait until the fire consumes us to turn to God, and then we wonder why we can’t hear Him. But it’s not because He isn’t there—it’s because we haven’t practiced hearing His voice. We haven’t learned how to recognize His presence in the stillness, let alone in the chaos.
Here’s the truth: God speaks the loudest during our pain, but we have to know how to listen. Cultivating a habit of reflection, prayer, and meditation allows us to tune in, even when the noise of suffering threatens to drown everything else out.
So, I leave you with this:
God is always there. In our agony, in our joy, and in every moment in between. When we find ourselves in the fire, we can stand in it with faith. We can trust that the furnace doesn’t consume us because God is there, walking alongside us, refining us for a purpose we may not yet see.
In thousands of agonies—I exist. And that means everything.
The Twin Tree Project 