The spiritual journey is often described as serene—meditation cushions, enlightened moments, a steady unfolding of peace. But in reality, it is far messier. It is less like a calm river and more like a blender: moments of clarity spinning alongside doubt, joy colliding with fear, and breakthroughs arriving only after breakdowns.
The truth is, walking with God does not mean escaping chaos; it means learning to navigate it.
One of the great misconceptions is that once a prayer is answered—once the blessing arrives—the work is done. People expect the arrival of a dream to mean ease, stability, and constant flow. But more often than not, the opposite occurs. When the blessing comes into view, the heart rejoices, but the mind resists. Suddenly, attachment creeps in: attachment to outcomes, to timelines, to specific ways of unfolding. And when life does not mirror the mind’s script, tension builds.
The heart, however, operates on a different frequency. The heart already knows what is true. It is rooted in eternity and not confined by fear, time, or logic. The mind, on the other hand, conjures up every old story: It’s too hard. It’s slipping away. I’m not enough. It rummages through the past, resurrecting patterns and beliefs that were meant to be buried. This conflict—between the steady knowing of the heart and the chaos of the mind—is the essence of the spiritual journey.
In those moments, many look outward for answers. A sign, a reading, a quote, a friend’s advice. But no matter how wise, these things cannot replace God’s voice within. External wisdom can point the way, but it cannot silence the storm. Only stillness, prayer, and surrender can.
And surrender is the hardest part. It feels easier to control, to fix, to demand clarity now. But the spiritual path asks something deeper: Will you trust when you cannot see? Will you release when you want to grasp? Will you let God’s plan be enough?
The beauty of the blender is that it strips us down to truth. It humbles us when we believe we’ve “arrived,” and it forces us to remember that we are not God—we are His creation. Our role is not to mastermind the unfolding, but to live, to play, to notice joy in small things, to be present for what already is.
The gift of the journey is this: every spiral ends in remembrance. Every doubt brings you back to trust. Every fall teaches you how to rise. And over time, you begin to see that nothing was wasted—not the confusion, not the waiting, not even the chaos.
The spiritual journey is not about escaping mess, but about finding God in the middle of it. And in that space, you remember: everything is fine, always was, and always will be.
