Another Night, Another Battle – A Story of Pain, Fear, and Resilience (VERSION 2)

Have you ever faced a night so long, so unrelenting, that you wondered if dawn would ever come? A night where pain and fear whispered louder than hope? A night where sleep was not just distant but impossible?

For some of us, the night is not a sanctuary—it is a battlefield. Another night, another battle. A war waged in silence, a struggle that most will never see. When the world is asleep, I remain awake, locked in combat with an invisible enemy.

It is a cruel irony—how the body craves rest, yet pain will not allow it. How the mind longs for peace, yet fear tightens its grip. How the hours crawl, slow and merciless, as if deliberately stretching out the suffering. And in the thick of it, there is no audience, no witnesses—only me and the battle I must fight alone.

And so, I write. Because in writing, I find relief. Because these words carry the weight my body refuses to hold. Because pain may claim my nights, but my voice—my voice still belongs to me.

The Weight of the Unseen Battle
The battle is not just against the physical pain—the relentless discomfort that refuses to be tamed. It is against the thoughts, the whispers of doubt, the questions with no answers.

They say, “Rest.”
They say, “Sleep.”
But how do you rest when every position feels like punishment? When lying down burns, and standing up betrays you? When even stillness is a storm?

They say, “Nothing is wrong.”

But if nothing is wrong, then why does my body feel like a battlefield? Why do my legs stagger as if the ground itself is uncertain? Why does my heart drum a rhythm too heavy to dance to? Why does pain sit with me like an unwanted guest—refusing to leave, refusing to hush?

They see the surface, but they do not hear the silent screams beneath my skin. They do not feel the exhaustion, the kind that is not just tiredness but something deeper, something bone-deep, soul-deep. A weariness that no amount of sleep could cure—even if sleep ever came.

So, I write. Because these words do not question me. Because here, I do not need to explain, to justify, to prove my pain. Here, in the quiet rhythm of my sentences, I find a moment of control. Here, in every stroke of ink, I carve out relief, even if only for a moment.

Because if my body is a battlefield, then my words are my shield. And as long as I can still write, I am still fighting.

March, The Month of Endless Battle
March has stretched itself long and merciless, refusing to loosen its grip. It has stolen my peace, my sleep, my strength—and yet, it lingers, dragging its feet like a reluctant guest who has long overstayed its welcome.

I have been down. I have been up. I have been admitted, discharged, poked, prodded—a cycle of hope and despair, of tests and scans, of doctors searching and finding… nothing.

Nothing, they say.
But nothing feels like something when your body is at war with itself.

Lab tests, scans, prescriptions. Every effort, every prayer, every pill. And yet—nothing.

But how can nothing feel like this? How can nothing steal my sleep, leaving me awake to count the hours, each one heavier than the last? How can nothing make my feet tremble beneath me? How can nothing make my heart pound like fufu in a mortar?

I have tried to hide it. I wear a smile that is not mine—smiles like borrowed clothes, stitched together to mask the truth. I walk tall on legs that do not believe in me. I laugh in rooms where my body only wants to collapse. I nod, I laugh, I say, “I’m fine.”

But I am not.
And my nights betray me.
The nights are the worst. They strip me bare. Nights know the truth—no decent sleep, no slumber. Only me, my pain, and the endless ticking of a clock that seems to mock me.

Lying down is war. Standing up is war. And living in this moment feels like war, too.

And I—I am caught in between.
The Battle of the ‘What Ifs’

Sickness does something to the mind—it forces you to confront the two things most people avoid thinking about: healing or death. Because when you are sick, the possibilities shrink. You either get better, or you don’t.

And in the darkest hours of the night, when the pain is at its worst, when exhaustion weighs heavy on my bones, when sleep refuses me and fear creeps in, the questions come.

What if this is it?
What if I never get better?
What if the doctors missed something?
What if the pain never ends?
What if I close my eyes and do not wake up?

No one talks about this part. The part where you make peace with the possibility that your body may never be the same. The part where you consider what must be done if tomorrow does not arrive for you. The part where you wonder if you have said enough, done enough, loved enough.

I have thought of death—not in longing, but in acknowledgment. Because when you stand at the crossroads of health and illness, you must consider both roads. And yet, in these moments, I have also thought of life. Not just existing, but truly living.

If this pain will not leave me, then I will carry it, like I have carried every burden before. Yes! If this pain will not leave, then neither will I.

I will walk. I will work. I will write. I will love. I will laugh. I will cry. I will live, even if I must do so through clenched teeth—not because it is easy, but because surrender is not in my blood.

I will not be reduced to my suffering. For if today is my end, let me go out doing what I love. Let me go out as me—Puobabangna.

The one who stood when his legs begged him to fall.

The one who smiled even when his heart whispered, “Don’t pretend.”

The one who chose to live, even when life refused to be kind.

The Light in the Darkness
No, I will not bow. I will not succumb—not to sickness, not to pity, not to the weight of worried eyes that search my face for answers I do not have. I am more than this suffering. I am more than this pain.

But in the darkness, I have found light. I have felt love woven into my pain. In my weakest moments, kindness has wrapped itself around me, unasked, unexpected, but deeply felt. I have received my flowers while I can still breathe them in. And for that, I am grateful.

I have learned to cherish every small victory. The moments when the pain softens, even for just a breath. The kindness of a friend who checks in—not out of obligation, but out of genuine concern. The fleeting minutes of rest that come like stolen treasures. The warmth of a smile that is real—not forced, not polite, but full of the unspoken understanding that says, I see you. I hear you. I am here.

There is something about suffering that makes you notice things you once took for granted. The taste of food when your appetite returns. The strength to stand when, only yesterday, you could barely sit. The laughter that slips through, surprising you, as if your body momentarily forgot its own struggles.

But through it all, one truth stands firm: God is on my side.

Even in my lowest moments, He is there. When pain grips me so tightly I cannot even pray, He hears the prayers I cannot speak. When fear whispers doubts in the dead of night, He silences them with His presence. When my body feels weak, His strength carries me.

I will not give up.
I cannot give up.
Because I do not fight this battle alone. My God is my refuge, my healer, my ever-present help in times of trouble. If the night stretches long, He is the keeper of the dawn. If my body wages war against me, He is the fortress that will not fall.

So yes, even as March has tried to break me, I am still here.

Still standing.
Still fighting.
Still believing.
And most importantly—still me.
I walk and move because that is how I fight. I refuse to let pain define me. If my body insists on this battle, then let it know—I do not go down without a fight.

Because Puobabangna does not surrender.

Because God is with me.
And with God, I will overcome.
The Choice to Keep Fighting
No, I will not bow. Not to sickness. Not to despair. Not to the whispers of doubt that creep into the silence of the night. My body may ache, my strength may waver, but my spirit remains unbroken. I have fought too many battles, climbed too many hills, and weathered too many storms to surrender now.

Pain has been my shadow, but it will never be my master. If I must walk through fire, then let my steps be steady. If I must carry this burden, then let my back be strong. For I am not alone—God is with me. His presence is my anchor, His mercy my refuge. Though the nights stretch long, though sleep remains distant, though each day demands more than I feel I can give, I am still here. And as long as I am here, I will fight.

They say time heals. But what of the wounds that time ignores? The ones that linger, unseen, unspoken, but deeply felt? I have learned that healing is not just about waiting—it is about rising, even when you do not feel strong enough to stand. It is about pushing forward, even when the weight of the unknown threatens to pull you under.

This, here, is my story. A story not just of struggle, but of resilience. Of a man who refuses to be defined by his suffering. Of a heart that still beats, a soul that still hopes, a mind that still dreams.

If my body falters, my words will not. If my strength weakens, my faith will stand firm. For I am Puobabangna—the one who writes through the storm, who turns agony into art, who refuses to let hardship have the final say.

And so, I write. Because in writing, I am free. Because my voice is louder than my pain. Because this, here, is my truth.

Pain may visit, but it will never own me. As long as there is breath in my lungs, I will live—not in fear, not in surrender, but in defiance, in hope, in faith.

For I am Puobabangna. And I will never be defeated.

#Puobabangna

By Victor Raul Puobabangna Plance from Eggu in the Upper West Region of Ghana