I can’t imagine separation is easy for anyone. No matter how it begins, there’s usually pain long before the actual ending arrives. Sometimes relationships don’t collapse all at once… they erode slowly over time. Conversations become shorter. Distance becomes normal. The effort to reconnect slowly fades until both people are standing in the same room feeling completely alone.

That’s where this season of my life began.

After twenty-six years together, the separation itself should not have been surprising. The relationship had been struggling for a long time, and near the end, many of our conversations centered around moving on, when there were conversations at all. Some were quiet. Others sharp and loud. Looking back now, I realize both of us were carrying hurt neither of us fully knew how to communicate.

When we finally separated, I believed it would happen peacefully. I thought we would work through things respectfully, divide responsibilities, and move forward without destroying each other in the process. But pain changes people. Fear changes people too.

And if I’m honest, I caused damage on the way out without fully understanding it at the time.

One of the hardest realizations during this season was recognizing how much emotional distance I had created over the course of our marriage. Growing up without healthy examples of love and communication leaves gaps you don’t recognize while you’re living inside them. When affection, reassurance, and emotional presence weren’t consistently modeled for you as a child, it becomes difficult to naturally give those things to someone else later in life.

I spent years focused on responsibility, work, providing, fixing problems… believing that was love. And while those things matter, they cannot replace connection. Eventually, the lack of communication, the lack of emotional presence, and the lack of truly trying began taking their toll.

This reflection is not meant to place blame on my ex-wife. She is a good person, and pain can bring out sides of people none of us recognize in ourselves. But once attorneys became involved, everything changed. What I thought would be an amicable separation slowly turned into something adversarial and exhausting.

At the time, I wasn’t financially able to hire my own attorney. That forced me into a position I never expected to be in, representing myself inside a legal system I knew almost nothing about.

I remember sitting in court while a judge explained that if I chose to represent myself, I would still be expected to know the law. At the same time, I had to listen to accusations, distortions, and statements about me that felt deeply untrue. It was overwhelming.

That was where Giant began.

Not from anger.
Not from revenge.
But from feeling small against something enormous.

The courtroom became symbolic of something much larger. A place where I realized how many people eventually face situations that feel far bigger than they are prepared for. Sometimes it’s divorce. Sometimes illness. Sometimes financial collapse, addiction, custody battles, anxiety, betrayal, or simply circumstances completely outside your control.

Everyone eventually faces giants, and most giants don’t look like what we expect.

Some wear suits.
Some arrive through diagnoses.
Some speak through fear in the middle of the night.
Some quietly convince us we are powerless long before the battle even begins.

That’s what made the story of David and Goliath resonate with me differently during this season. David wasn’t the strongest person in the valley. He wasn’t the most equipped. He wasn’t even expected to survive the fight. What made him dangerous was not size or strength… it was faith.

Not certainty in himself.
Certainty in God.

That realization slowly changed the way I approached my own situation. At first, I tried to control everything. I researched obsessively, stayed up late learning legal procedures, preparing responses, trying to anticipate every possible attack. And while hard work mattered, I eventually realized something deeper: control itself had become exhausting.

Faith introduced something different.

Not passivity.
Not giving up.

Peace.

A quiet understanding that I could fight honestly, stand firmly, and still surrender the outcome to God. That whatever happened, I was not carrying the full weight of it alone anymore.

That shift changed more than my thoughts. It changed my body. My mind. My ability to rest. Because fear constantly demands certainty, but faith asks for trust instead.

And maybe that’s what this song ultimately became about.

Not defeating enemies.
Not “winning.”

But standing in the middle of overwhelming circumstances without losing yourself to fear.

The line:

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                           “They may have an army, but I’m not walking alone”

became the emotional center of the song for me. Because that’s what faith often feels like in real life, not loud certainty, but quiet endurance beside something much larger than yourself.

Over time, I began realizing how universal this struggle really is. Most people eventually encounter seasons where they feel deeply outmatched by life. Situations where experience, intelligence, money, or strength alone no longer feel sufficient.

And in those moments, faith becomes something more than belief.

It becomes the thing that steadies you when everything else feels unstable.

Looking back now, I no longer believe peace comes from controlling outcomes. Peace comes from trusting that God remains present inside outcomes we cannot fully control. Even painful ones. Even confusing ones. Even the ones we would never choose for ourselves.

Time with God has taught me something difficult but important:
sometimes what initially feels like destruction eventually becomes refinement.

Not because the pain was good.
But because God can still work through it.

That doesn’t make the valley easy...

But it keeps the valley from becoming hopeless.