Chasing Starlight

Rediscovering Worth in the Light of Faith

Chasing Starlight: Rediscovering Worth in the Light of Faith

I’ve spent countless hours chasing starlight. My camera, my telescope, and I have hunted the faint glow of distant galaxies, the delicate wisps of nebulae, and the steady shine of constellations that have guided wanderers for many years over time. Astrophotography has been my refuge, my way of touching the infinite. But beneath the beauty of the cosmos, I was losing myself to a darkness far deeper than any night sky.

There was a time when the stars stopped speaking to me. The weight of my own thoughts, spiraling, relentless, drowned out their quiet light. I was drowning in a mental health crisis that I didn’t know how to name. Anxiety clawed at my chest; depression whispered that I was worthless, a speck of dust in a universe too grand to care. I’d sit in the grass after a night of shooting, the cold seeping through my clothes, and wonder if anyone would notice if I just… disappeared. The thought of suicide wasn’t loud or dramatic; it was a quiet, insidious voice that told me the world would be better off without my failures.

I remember one night, under a sky blazing with stars, I broke. I’d spent hours trying to capture the Orion Nebula, but every frame was blurry, every adjustment wrong. It felt like a metaphor for my life; nothing I did was ever enough. I sat on the cold ground, my camera abandoned, and sobbed. I felt like I was screaming into the void, and the void was silent. I thought about ending it all, about stepping into the darkness and letting it swallow me. But in that moment, something, someone, whispered back.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18, NIV)

I didn’t hear an audible voice, but I felt a presence, a warmth that cut through the chill of that night. It was as if God was sitting beside me, under that star-strewn sky, reminding me that I wasn’t alone. That moment didn’t fix everything. It didn’t erase the pain or silence the voices in my head. But it was a lifeline, a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, I was worth saving.

The journey since that night hasn’t been easy. Mental health recovery is not a straight line; it’s a constellation of small victories and setbacks, connected by grace. I was admitted to a facility for a period of time, and in there, I worked to clear my mind. I started therapy, began medication, and leaned into my faith like never before. I clung to scriptures that reminded me of my worth in God’s eyes. “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” (Psalm 139:13-14, NIV). These words became my anchor, a reminder that I wasn’t a mistake, no matter how loudly my mind screamed otherwise.

Astrophotography became my sanctuary again, but in a new way. Each time I set up my telescope, I saw the stars not just as celestial objects, but as evidence of a Creator who crafted beauty from chaos. The same God who spun galaxies into existence cared about me, a broken man with a camera and a heart full of doubts. I began to see my work as an act of worship, a way of reflecting God’s glory back to Him. Every long-exposure shot, every hour spent waiting for the perfect frame, is a prayer, a declaration that I am still here, still fighting, still chasing light.

I recently captured an image of the Helix Nebula, often called “the Eye of God,” which to me is a reminder he is always close and always watching over me. To me, that light is God’s grace, a beacon shining even when I’ve strayed. It speaks of the second chance I’ve received, not just to exist, but to live with purpose. To love more fully, forgive more readily, and extend the same compassion God has shown me. “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!” (2 Corinthians 5:17, NIV).

I wish I could say the darkness is gone for good, but it still lingers sometimes, like clouds drifting across a moonless night. When it does, I go back to the stars. I set up my camera, point it heavenward, and remember that I am seen, known, and loved by the One who hung those stars in place. I think of others who might be where I was, staring into their own void, and I want to tell them, You are not alone. Your worth isn’t in what you do or what you’ve failed to do; it’s in the One who made you. Hold on. There’s light waiting for you.

Chasing starlight has taught me that even in the darkest nights, there’s always a glimmer of hope. And in the light of faith, I’ve found the courage to keep going, to keep creating, to keep living. If you’re reading this and you’re struggling, know that you’re worth fighting for. Reach out. Seek help. And look up, because the One who made the stars is chasing after you, too.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:5, NIV)

Keep Looking Up.

-g