Can I Cry?
By Julie Mathew, a second-year law student at Seton Hall University School of Law.
“Can I cry?”
The words sounded strange coming out of my mouth – and even stranger that I was asking them to my mom. It was a random Friday, two months into my first semester of law school. She had just picked me up from the train station, like she had been doing every Friday since I started.
Every Friday, I blinked my tears away just as the train doors opened, took a deep breath, and plastered a smile onto my face as I walked towards my mom. I was always greeted with the same, “Hi baby, I missed you! How are you doing?” To which I would swallow the lump in my throat and reply, “I’m good, mummy, how are you?”
We’d drive home as I told her about my week and the mountain of work waiting for me that weekend. The pit in my stomach grew, but the mask stayed intact. Once home, I’d grab a snack, retreat to my room to “do work,” and scroll mindlessly to escape my thoughts. But I didn’t mind being home – home was the only familiar thing I had in the sea of firsts and uncertainties. My one constant.
Sundays though, I dreaded. Yes, I had a church, which I loved, but Sundays suddenly meant something else to me; it meant I had to go back. Back to the place I now associated with sadness, anxiety, and suffocating loneliness. Again, I’d blink away tears in the car ride back to my apartment, as my parents chatted cheerfully. I’d feign a smile as they helped me carry my things inside and hugged me goodbye.
Only this time, on this particular Friday, I couldn’t do it anymore. Blinking away my tears wasn’t working. My mask shattered. As I responded with my usual “I’m good, mummy, how are you?” my voice cracked. Mummy looked over, startled, and asked, “Is everything okay, kutta?”1 And before I could stop myself, I asked, “Can I cry?” I didn’t know why I worded it like a request, as if I needed her permission. But looking back, I wasn’t really asking her. I was asking myself. Was it okay to finally let it all out?
As the eldest child of two immigrants, I grew up watching my parents work tirelessly, sacrifice endlessly, and hide their struggles so my brother and I could have every opportunity they never had. They always said, “Your happiness is our happiness,” and “We want you to lack nothing.” So I made it my mission, similarly, to never let them see me struggle. To show them that we lacked nothing, because of them. I learned to hide the heaviness of different seasons, to never “break” in front of them. In college, when they asked how I was doing, I’d say, “I’m a bit stressed, but it’ll be okay,” even though I had just finished crying in my guidance counselor’s office, terrified that one bad semester meant no good internship, no good job, and, in my mind, that I had somehow failed my parents.
But, on this random Friday, I let it all out. I sobbed. Hard. I told my mom everything – how stressed I was, how reading a hundred pages a week wasn’t what I imagined law school to be like, but more than anything, how lonely I felt. How uprooted I felt leaving Pennsylvania, a place that had become home, only to be placed somewhere that felt so unfamiliar and isolating. How I ate Wingstop (my comfort meal) alone in silence at my dining table, letting loneliness wash over me, letting myself believe that this was now my new, and permanent, reality. How many nights I cried over my textbook, trying to get through readings while feeling sadness pressing down on me. How I felt lonely even around people, and how I worried that maybe I’d made the wrong decision—because surely this level of sadness couldn’t be my next three years. And, on that car ride, I sobbed even harder as I saw tears well in mummy’s eyes, mad at myself for allowing her to see me this way.
I cried the rest of the car ride, with mummy silently tearing up beside me. Transferring my tears to my bedroom, she sat on my bed, prayed quietly, and just stayed – a quiet reminder that I wasn’t alone. After a while, my tears slowed, and I told her to sleep before her night shift. She reluctantly did, and I vowed to pull myself together before my dad came home. I didn’t want him to see me like this. An hour later, I heard the garage open and my dad shout, “Hi Jula, I missed you! Where are you?” The moment I saw his smile at the top of the stairs, I broke again. He dropped his briefcase and hugged me tightly as I sobbed. Then he began praying over me. I hadn’t told him anything, but his prayer made it clear he somehow knew—knew everything I couldn’t say out loud. And he sat with me, fed me, talked to me, and fought back his own tears, reminding me I wasn’t carrying any of this alone.
I think about that day often. How much heartache I could have saved myself throughout my life so far if I had just let the mask fall earlier. But, of course, opening up came with new insecurities. I felt…soft. Fragile. Like maybe I didn’t have what it takes to be a strong lawyer. How could a strong and successful lawyer cry so much? But the Lord continuously reminded me that He had softened my heart on purpose. Not only to show me that I didn’t have to carry anything alone, but also so that I could see people differently. See clients differently than other clients. That my heart was meant to carry compassion into a field that desperately needs it. The very thing I thought made me weak was how God was shaping me.
But, on this random Friday, I let it all out. I sobbed. Hard. I told my mom everything – how stressed I was, how reading a hundred pages a week wasn’t what I imagined law school to be like … How uprooted I felt leaving Pennsylvania, a place that had become home … How I ate Wingstop alone in silence at my dining table, letting loneliness wash over me, letting myself believe that this was now my new, and permanent, reality.
That season pushed me to start writing prayers — taking a source of shame into an ode to the one who shaped my heart in this way. I poured my heart out to Jesus. My tears stained my journal and my Bible, but they also became the place I met Him most intimately.
Now, a year later, I am truly in awe of how God carried me. Psalms 40 has become my anchor and my testimony:
“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and the mire; He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked forward. He has given me a new song to sing, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see what He has done and be amazed. They will put their trust in the Lord.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid of slipping back into that darkness again. I wrestled with God about it, begging Him to never let me go back to that place. But this summer, He reminded me gently: “If I brought you through it before, I will bring you through it again.” Just look at the Psalms — David goes from praising God with joy to “Why have You forsaken me?” in back-to-back chapters. Scripture doesn’t promise a life without trouble. Jesus Himself said, “In this world you will have trouble.” But He also promised, “Take heart — I have overcome the world.” My prayers from this year reflect that rollercoaster — joy one day, anxiety the next, peace the next. And all of it is holy ground.
Prayer 1:
Thank you, Jesus, for an unexpectedly joy-filled week, and not because anything ground breaking happened, but simply because you showed me what fullness of joy in You looks like, and what unexplainable peace feels like, after a while of having not felt much of either. This week was filled with little whispers from You, showing me how much You love me, each a little reminder that You see me and are listening. Some whispers were quiet, maybe in the form of an uplifting song or a post I saw on Instagram or a silly conversation. Other whispers were louder, like conversations that affirmed something I had been praying about, or feeling like a long term prayer had been answered, even if the answer was “no,” or “wait, not right now.” As much as I long for this feeling of peace/joy to last, I know that it will inevitably fade because I’m human. I’ll inevitably feel anxious and overwhelmed and alone again at some points. Maybe even tomorrow, who knows lol. But, on the bright side, I’m excited for more whispers from You in those moments, guiding me back into Your loving, safe, and warm arms. Reminding me that You’re still there. Thank you Jesus.
Prayer 2:
I was sitting in frustration for a minute, thinking about how I had asked You to guard my heart. I gave it to You hoping I wouldn’t get hurt, or sad, or anxious, or confused, etc. But then I was reminded of Isaiah 55:38: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.” I realized that I had asked You to guard my heart, but I had also come up with my own solution to what I hoped that looked like. Even though Your ways do not look like my ways, I know that, even when it doesn’t look like it, You’ve been guarding my heart all along. That when I felt like You left it unguarded, Your hands were so tightly wrapped around it and You had never once let go. I realized that maybe instead of keeping me from ever getting hurt, which, let’s face it, is not realistic, guarding my heart looked like filling me with joy, unexplainable peace and strength in moments of confusion, anxiety, sadness and frustration. It looked like You holding onto me so tight in moments when I absolutely lost it, making sure I felt the weight and peace of Your presence. It looked like You surrounding me with people who uplift me, encourage me, and point me back to You when I couldn’t myself. You’ve never once let go of my heart, Jesus, if anything that prayer I’ve prayed has only made You hold onto it that much tighter. Your ways truly aren’t my ways Jesus and Your thoughts aren’t my thoughts, but that’s also beautiful.
Prayer 3:
I met You in my mess, Jesus. I learned You in my mess. I saw You in my mess. Not when everything was pristine, not when I was walking through a field of sunflowers and joy. I didn’t experience Your presence only when the music reached a crescendo. I didn’t encounter Your love only when I listened to a feel good sermon. I didn’t understand the magnitude of who You were only when I had on my Sunday best, stepping into a building. No, I met You in my mess. I met You on my floor, tears staining my shirt and Bible. I met You at rock bottom when I thought all hope was lost. I encountered Your presence in some of my most lonely moments. I experienced Your love for me when I felt completely unlovable. I understood the magnitude of who You are at my ugliest of moments, in all senses of the word. I met You in my mess, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. I learned that You are the same in the valley as You are on the mountain. You’re constant. You’re present. You love big. You love unconditionally. You love ME. I learned that in my mess, which now makes my moments of joy that much greater.
Scripture doesn’t promise a life without trouble. Jesus Himself said, “In this world you will have trouble.” But He also promised, “Take heart — I have overcome the world.” My prayers from this year reflect that rollercoaster — joy one day, anxiety the next, peace the next. And all of it is holy ground.
That question — “Can I cry?” – is the same posture I bring to Jesus now. Not a facade. Not pretending everything’s fine. But bringing Him my brokenness, my vulnerability, my tears. Letting Him see the ugly, and allowing Him to hold every piece.
I’m grateful beyond words that I could run to my parents, but I know that’s not everyone’s story. Yet the truth remains the same for all of us: We aren’t meant to carry our burdens alone. Emotions aren’t weaknesses — they’re signals. Signals of what our hearts are carrying and invitations to bring those burdens to Him. They’re part of being image-bearers of a God who Himself wept. So if you’re reading this and the world feels heavy…If you’re blinking away tears…if you’re asking yourself, “Can I cry?” Let me tell you what I wish someone had told me:
Yes.
It’s okay.
You can cry.
You can break.
And Jesus will meet you right there – in the mess, in the tears, in the honesty – and He will carry you through, and use it all for His glory.
Julie Mathew is a second-year law student at Seton Hall University School of Law and a graduate of Villanova University, where she majored in Finance and minored in Theology and Consulting. Rooted in her Christian faith, Julie’s worldview has been shaped by a faith that has also served as an anchor through challenging seasons of life. Her study of theology deepened her love for Scripture and faith-centered discussion, helping her find her voice through writing—particularly through prayers and short stories. As she continues her legal education, she is drawn to the intersection of faith and law and the ways both can shape a more thoughtful and just legal practice.
Kutta is a word in Malayalam (the language of Kerala, India) which means little one.