In the chapter titled "The Battle" from Just Before Dawn, we encounter the invisible war so many survivors fight every day—a war of the mind, the heart, and the spirit. It is not the kind of battle you can see with your eyes. It's a struggle waged behind a smile, beneath the surface of a busy life. Many walk through their days hiding under a polished facade while feeling as if they are crumbling inside. This chapter gives voice to that quiet, exhausting conflict.

The chapter titled “Helps” in Just Before Dawn offers a raw and unfiltered look at what it means to seek support when life feels unmanageable. This section doesn’t provide tidy answers—instead, it gives readers permission to admit their pain and take a breath in the middle of it. The focus is on real, grounded help: what it looks like, how it’s received, and why it matters. It invites readers to recognize the moments when they’ve felt invisible, exhausted, or unsure of how to ask for support—and to consider that these moments are more common than we often admit.

Healing rarely begins on a mountaintop—it starts in the valley. It often begins in a place of exhaustion, heartbreak, or even despair. For many, it's the moment when everything else has been tried, and nothing has brought relief. It’s when survival has become too heavy and silence too loud. In the chapter “The Process” from Just Before Dawn, we are invited into stories that reflect this raw and painful beginning. These are stories of individuals who chose to turn toward healing not because it was easy—but because they could no longer bear the weight of unhealed wounds.

Some stories in Scripture don’t just speak—they echo. The sub chapter Rebuilding My Jerusalem from Just Before Dawn draws a powerful parallel between Nehemiah rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem and the healing process after trauma.

For many survivors, life after abuse feels like standing in the ruins of what once was. The walls that should have protected were torn down. The foundation feels unstable. Safety and hope feel like distant dreams. But Scripture offers something survivors rarely hear: restoration is possible.

“They will rebuild and restore the places long devastated; they will renew the ruined cities that have been devastated for generations.”
—Isaiah 61:4

Some chapters don’t just tell stories. They stop you mid-sentence. They sit with you in the silence. “Letters” from Just Before Dawn is one of those chapters.

It’s not just a collection of letters. It’s a soft invitation to listen in on the words many trauma survivors have never said out loud—the quiet grief, the aching questions, the gratitude that doesn’t always have a place to land. These letters are deeply personal. Raw. Honest. And they read like pieces of all of us.

They are words from survivors to counselors, to doctors, to dentists, to parents, and even to God. Not because sending them would change the past, but because writing them made it possible to name what couldn’t be spoken.

There are books you read—and then there are books that read you. Just Before Dawn is the latter. Especially in the chapter titled “Kicking the Walls,” the author takes readers into a deeply honest look at what it means to live behind emotional barriers built in the aftermath of trauma.

This chapter doesn’t offer platitudes or surface-level comfort. Instead, it walks through the emotional walls so many trauma survivors construct to protect themselves: secrecy, denial, shame, self-protection, and self-contempt. Each is explored with clarity, compassion, and biblical insight.

“Through the silence, if we would but stop and listen, a voice, distant and small… Its tenor plaintive and hesitant, fearing detection or even acknowledgment, and yet praying for it all at the same time. But through the silence, God is speaking, as well, Longing, yearning to be heard, whispering softly and lovingly to His beloved ones, drawing them to Himself.”

All too often, we use silence like a protective barrier. It can feel like safety. But for many survivors of trauma, silence becomes a prison—one built from fear, shame, and the belief that speaking out will only bring more pain.

In this chapter of Just Before Dawn, the author explores the deep, isolating power of silence and the courage it takes to break free from its icy grasp.

For many, silence is a learned survival strategy. It is reinforced by abusers who threaten or manipulate, by families who “don’t talk about those things,” and by a world that often struggles to hold space for difficult truths. The book makes it clear: breaking the silence is terrifying—but necessary for healing.

Asking questions is essential to understanding and growth. Yet, for many, the fear of judgment or rejection holds them back. Some aren’t even sure what the right questions are, while others carry them silently, too afraid or ashamed to speak them aloud.

The comforting truth is that God invites us—time and time again throughout scripture—to come to Him with our deepest questions, concerns, fears, and doubts. There are no prerequisites, no judgments, and no questions that are too big or too small. God doesn’t turn away an earnest seeker. He understands our curiosity, our confusion, and even our hesitation to ask.

The chapter titled "Because" from Just Before Dawn is a raw and reflective exploration of how trauma shapes the way a person thinks, feels, and behaves. It gives language to the often-invisible reasons behind the fears, defense mechanisms, and internal battles survivors carry.

This isn’t about offering easy answers. It’s about understanding what so many survivors wish others could see: the "why" behind their silence, their struggles, their reactions. The chapter is filled with these "because" statements that reveal the logic behind what may seem like irrational fear or resistance.

"Because I’ve been hurt, I’m afraid of more pain. Because I’ve been betrayed, I’m afraid to trust people. Because I’ve been shamed, I’m afraid to be seen."

Each of these lines speaks volumes. They reflect the invisible scars that affect how trauma survivors see themselves, others, and even God.