Faith After Disappointment
There are disappointments that don’t just sting—they rearrange you. The kind that makes you replay prayers you whispered in the dark and wonder why the outcome felt so sharp. People will try to comfort you with quick answers, but sometimes the truth is simpler and harder: you believed God would move a certain way, and He didn’t.
I used to think faith meant staying upbeat—keeping my words polished, my emotions contained, my questions silent. But disappointment exposes what performance can’t hold. It pulls the mask off and forces a decision: either I pretend I’m fine in God’s presence, or I tell the truth and stay anyway.
So I’ve learned a different kind of faith—the kind that can grieve without resigning. The kind that says, “This hurt me,” without saying, “You hurt me.” The kind that keeps praying, not because I’m certain, but because I’m still connected. Because even when I don’t understand God’s timing, I refuse to believe He is careless with my life.
If you’re disappointed, you’re not failing God. You’re human. Bring the raw parts. Bring the anger you’re trying to sanctify. Bring the tears you keep swallowing. God does not require you to be unshaken—He asks you to be honest.
Sometimes the breakthrough isn’t the answer you wanted. Sometimes it’s realizing you can be wounded and still held.
I can trust God and still tell the truth about what hurt.
Why Stillness Matters
Stillness is often misunderstood. It’s mistaken for passivity or giving up. But stillness is not the absence of movement — it is the presence of attention.
In a world that rewards noise, speed, and certainty, stillness becomes a quiet act of faith. Not faith as performance, but faith as listening. As trust that meaning doesn’t disappear when we stop striving for it.
Stillness asks very little of us. It doesn’t require answers or clarity. It only asks that we stay.
In stillness, we notice what we usually outrun — our breath, our thoughts, our grief, our gratitude. We become aware of what we are carrying and what we no longer need to carry alone. Sometimes that awareness comforts us. Sometimes it unsettles us. Both are honest.
For some, stillness is prayer.
For others, it is reflection or quiet presence.
For many, it is the moment we stop explaining ourselves.
Stillness is where trust often begins — not trust that everything will turn out as hoped, but trust that we can remain grounded even when it doesn’t. It is where faith loosens its grip on certainty and learns to breathe.
We return to candles, silence, and quiet spaces for a reason. Stillness reminds us that meaning doesn’t always arrive loudly. Sometimes it settles in gently, once we stop reaching for it.
Stillness matters because it makes room — for belief, for doubt, for healing, and for presence. And sometimes, that is enough.
Held, Even Here
Some days, faith doesn’t look like belief.
It looks like breathing through the moment in front of you.
It looks like getting out of bed when you’re tired of being brave.
Like trusting rest.
Like staying soft when life has given you every reason to harden.
I used to think faith required clarity — words, certainty, answers.
Now I know it can exist without any of that.
Faith can be the quiet knowing that you are not alone,
even when you don’t know what you believe anymore.
It can be the feeling of being steadied rather than fixed.
Held rather than explained.
I don’t need faith to shout.
I need it to stay.
And somehow, even here —it does.
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Even here, I am held.