Hospitals, Pressure, and the Supremacy of Christ
There are moments in life where exhaustion and gratitude somehow sit in the same chair together.
This morning is one of those mornings.
As I finally sit down to write, I do not say this very often, but after surviving my first week at Gold Coast University Hospital, I am proud of how I handled such a high stress week.
That sentence alone feels strange to write.
Not because the week was easy. Not because I walked through it without anxiety. Not because I suddenly became fearless or confident overnight.
But because there are seasons in life where simply enduring is its own form of victory.
I sit down this morning with a strong coffee beside me and my two rescue cats loving the fact that I am finally home for the day. Tired in body yet strangely clear in spirit, I find myself reading and meditating on the book of colosssians. And the deeper I read, the more I realise something that perhaps I have spent years slowly learning:
Christ does not merely meet us in peaceful places. Sometimes He introduces Himself most clearly in pressure.
There is something about hospitals that strips life back to its rawest form. The sounds. The fluorescent lights. The constant movement. The emotional weight carried silently through hallways. The exhausted faces. The hidden grief behind closed doors. The fragile line between life and death that hangs over so many rooms without ever announcing itself loudly.
Hospitals are strange places because they expose humanity.
Not the filtered version we upload online. Not the polished version we present to the world. Not the curated version hidden behind captions and carefully chosen photographs.
Real humanity.
Heartbreak, sorrow, and also joy all co existing within the same space.Weak humanity. Hurting humanity. Anxious humanity. Temporary humanity.
And perhaps that is why I found myself thinking so deeply about Colossians this week.
Because Paul writes that letter while imprisoned.
That matters.
We often read Scripture so quickly that we forget these were not comfortable men writing comfortable words from comfortable lives. Paul was not sitting beside a fireplace with soft music playing in the background while writing theological reflections for future Instagram quotes. He was suffering. He was confined. He was acquainted with pain, rejection, uncertainty, betrayal, and pressure.
Yet somehow the book of Colossians feels enormous.
It feels cosmic.
It feels like a man staring directly at suffering while simultaneously staring even higher toward the sovereignty of Christ.
One verse in particular has stayed with me all week:
“He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together.”
That verse becomes different when you walk through pressure.Because sometimes life genuinely feels like it is falling apart.
Sometimes your emotions feel scattered. Your mind feels exhausted. Your body feels worn out. Your confidence shakes. Your insecurities get louder. Your past resurfaces. Your fears become amplified.
And yet Paul says:
In Him all things hold together.
Not some things. All things.
Even exhausted cleaners pushing heavy trolleys through hospital corridors at midnight. Even anxious minds trying to adjust to overwhelming new environments. Even hearts silently carrying private battles nobody else can see.
Christ still holds all things together.
I think one of the greatest lies suffering whispers to people is the idea that God has somehow stepped away.
That hardship means absence. That pressure means abandonment. That exhaustion means distance.
But the Gospel says the exact opposite.
The Gospel says God stepped directly into suffering Himself.
That is what separates Christianity from empty inspiration.
The centre of Christianity is not self improvement. It is not positive thinking. It is not religious performance. It is not pretending to be strong.
The centre of Christianity is a bleeding Saviour carrying a cross.
That changes everything.
Because it means when we suffer, we are not speaking to a distant God who merely studies pain academically. We are speaking to Christ — the One who was mocked, rejected, abandoned, beaten, crushed, pierced, humiliated, and crucified.
The One who entered human suffering voluntarily.
The One who walked toward Golgotha knowing exactly what waited for Him there.
And somehow this week, in the middle of exhaustion, I found myself thinking deeply about that reality.
There were moments at the hospital where I felt completely overwhelmed internally. Moments where my thoughts raced faster than my ability to control them. Moments where I questioned whether I was capable enough for the role. Moments where old insecurities started resurfacing quietly beneath the surface.
And I must admit, on my last break last night before finishing up for the week, I sat quietly in tears.
Not dramatic tears. Not loud tears. Just the quiet kind that come when exhaustion, pressure, self doubt, and emotional overload all finally catch up with you at once. The kind of moment where your thoughts begin spiralling faster than your ability to steady them, and for a few minutes you genuinely feel crushed beneath the weight of everything pressing against your mind and heart.
And perhaps that is why Colossians felt so alive to me this week.
Because Paul keeps redirecting the reader back toward the supremacy of Christ.
Not self supremacy. Not human strength. Christ.
Modern culture teaches people to look inward for salvation. The Gospel teaches us to look upward.
Culture says:
“You are enough.”
The Gospel says:
That difference matters deeply.
Because the truth is, most of us eventually discover we are not enough.
Life eventually exposes that.
Pressure exposes that. Trauma exposes that. Loss exposes that. Hospitals expose that.
And honestly, that realisation can either destroy a person or finally lead them toward grace.
I think this week reminded me again how fragile humanity truly is.
Walking those corridors, seeing patients, hearing codes called overhead, watching exhausted nurses and staff move constantly from room to room, you become aware very quickly that life is not nearly as permanent as people pretend it is.
The illusion of control starts collapsing.
And yet strangely, instead of making me feel hopeless, it made the Gospel feel even more beautiful.
Because Christianity begins exactly where human pride dies.
At the foot of the cross.
The cross stands as God’s declaration that humanity cannot save itself.
No amount of success can erase sin. No amount of money can heal the human heart. No amount of self help can resurrect a spiritually dead soul.
We needed rescue.
Not advice. Rescue.
And that rescue came through Jesus Christ.
Not through worldly power. Not through military force. Not through domination.
But through sacrifice.
That is still one of the most breathtaking realities in existence to me.
The Creator entered creation. The Holy One stepped into brokenness. The King wore thorns. The sinless One became the offering for sinners.
And while reading Colossians this week, I kept coming back to how central Jesus truly is to everything.
Paul does not present Christ as merely important. He presents Him as supreme.
Above suffering. Above powers. Above fear. Above death itself.
That perspective matters when life feels overwhelming.
Because if Christ truly rose from the dead, then suffering is no longer ultimate reality.
Death itself has already been defeated.
That changes the emotional architecture of suffering completely.
It does not magically remove pain. It does not erase anxiety overnight. It does not suddenly make hard weeks easy.
It means pain does not write the end of the story.
But it introduces hope into places that previously only contained darkness.
And hope is powerful.
Especially for people who know what hopelessness feels like.
I think sometimes people misunderstand Christians when they speak about joy.
Biblical joy is not pretending life is easy.
Biblical joy is standing inside difficulty while still believing Christ remains King.
That is different.
Very different.
This week stretched me mentally and emotionally more than I expected. New environments have always challenged me deeply. I overthink things. I analyse everything internally. I notice atmospheres. I carry pressure quietly. I replay interactions in my mind. And when you combine all of that with exhaustion and high stress environments, it can become overwhelming quickly.
But looking back now, I can honestly say something surprising:
God sustained me.
Not perfectly. Not dramatically. Not through emotional hype.
Quietly.
Faithfully.
One step at a time.
One corridor at a time. One shift at a time. One anxious thought at a time.
And perhaps maturity in faith sometimes looks less like spiritual fireworks and more like endurance.
Just continuing forward. Continuing to pray. Continuing to trust. Continuing to show up.
I do not tell myself this very often, even with everything I achieved last year through the books I published and the publishing house I am currently building, but I am proud of myself.
I think about Paul writing from prison and I realise something important:
The Gospel has always advanced through suffering.
Not comfort.
Some of the deepest revelations of Christ throughout church history came through people walking through immense hardship.
The early church understood suffering differently than modern culture does. They did not automatically interpret hardship as proof God had abandoned them. Often they understood suffering as the very place where Christ refined, shaped, humbled, and strengthened them.
That does not mean suffering itself is good.
But God is able to work powerfully even through broken things.
The cross itself proves that.
Humanity committed the greatest evil imaginable crucifying the Son of God and yet through that very act came salvation for the world.
That is sovereignty.
Not God avoiding suffering. God redeeming through suffering.
And honestly, I think that truth becomes more meaningful the older you get.
Especially after trauma. Especially after loss. Especially after disappointment.
There comes a point where shallow Christianity no longer satisfies the soul.
You need something deeper than clichés. You need something stronger than motivational quotes. You need something eternal.
That is why books like Colossians matter so much.
Because Paul keeps lifting the reader’s eyes higher.
Higher than fear. Higher than exhaustion. Higher than earthly chaos.
Toward Christ.
The image of the invisible God. The One before all things. The One holding all things together. The One who reconciles sinners through His blood.
That last part matters deeply to me.
Through His blood.
The Gospel is not cheap optimism.
It cost something.
Salvation was purchased through violence poured upon innocence.
Jesus absorbed the wrath humanity deserved so sinners could be reconciled to God.
That reality should humble every single one of us.
Because none of us stand before God through our own goodness.
Not me. Not pastors. Not churches. Not religious people.
We stand only through grace.And perhaps one of the strangest things about working in a hospital environment is how quickly human pride starts looking fragile.
Illness humbles people. Mortality humbles people. Suffering humbles people.
The illusion that we are invincible disappears very quickly around sickness and death.But the Gospel steps directly into that fragility and says:
There is still hope.
Not because humanity is strong. But because Christ conquered death itself.
That changes everything.
This morning, as I sip coffee and reflect on this week, I realise I am grateful not simply because I survived the pressure, but because the pressure revealed things inside me.
Weaknesses. Fears. Insecurities. Limitations.
But also perseverance.
Growth.
Endurance.
And perhaps most importantly, dependence on God.Because the truth is, independence sounds attractive until life becomes heavy enough to crush you.
Eventually every human being reaches situations beyond their own strength.And in those moments the question becomes:
What are you anchored to?
For me, despite all my flaws and failures and struggles, I keep returning to Christ.Not because I have mastered faith. But because I have discovered nothing else can truly hold the weight of a human soul.Not success. Not attention. Not relationships. Not achievement. Not money. Not platforms.
Only Christ.
And maybe that is part of what Paul is trying to communicate throughout Colossians.
Jesus is not an accessory to life. He is life itself.
Without Him humanity remains spiritually disconnected from the very source of eternal life.That is why the resurrection matters so profoundly.
Christianity rises or falls entirely upon the resurrection of Jesus Christ.
If Christ did not rise, then suffering wins. Death wins. Darkness wins.
But if Christ truly walked out of the tomb, then hope is no longer wishful thinking. It becomes historical reality.The empty tomb becomes heaven’s declaration that death does not get the final word.
I think about that often.Especially in places surrounded by human suffering.
Hospitals remind you constantly that bodies break down. Human beings are temporary. Life is fragile.But the resurrection reminds believers that this world, in its current broken form, is not the end of the story.
There is a coming restoration.
A coming kingdom.
A coming day where Christ makes all things new.No more death. No more mourning. No more suffering. No more disease.And honestly, sometimes that hope is what carries people through exhausting weeks.Not escapism. Hope.
Real hope rooted in Christ.
As I finish writing this entry, the coffee beside me has gone cold.The morning sunlight is slowly breaking through the window. My body is tired. My mind is still processing the intensity of this week.
But deep down, beneath the exhaustion, there is gratitude.Not gratitude because everything was easy.Gratitude because God remained faithful inside the difficulty.And maybe that is what I am slowly learning:
The sovereignty of God does not mean life becomes painless.It means pain itself is no longer meaningless.
Christ is still reigning. Still sustaining. Still holding all things together.
Even us.
About the Author
Dylan Verdun Sullivan is the founder of Refined by Fire Press and an Australian author indexed in the National Library of Australia. As a Level 7 Local Guide with over 1.7 million views on Google Maps, he documents the intersection of faith, recovery, and the light found in ordinary places.
- Read the Memoir: Kissed by Death on Amazon
- Explore the Journey: Follow Dylan on Google Maps
- Connect on Instagram: @porkysparadise
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