I feel lost.

Lately, my mind has felt like a whirlwind—a mess of thoughts pulling in all directions, a list of responsibilities stacking higher by the hour, and only one version of me trying to juggle it all without breaking. And if I’m being completely honest? I feel lost. Not in a dramatic, falling-apart kind of way—but in the quiet, invisible kind of unraveling that no one else seems to notice. I’ve been stretched thin—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. In the process of trying to keep everything together, I slowly began letting go of the very routines that used to keep me grounded. I forgot to pray. I skipped my Bible readings. I missed Sunday Mass—not because I didn’t care, but because I was too overwhelmed, too drained, too caught up in the momentum of trying to be everything to everyone. And somewhere in the stillness that followed, the guilt crept in. Guilt for drifting. Guilt for not making time for God. Guilt for losing touch with the One who had always been my source of peace. Have you ever felt that, dear reader? Like you’ve been running on empty for so long, you don’t even remember what “full” feels like?

I’ve come to realize that what I was carrying was a quiet kind of burnout, cleverly disguised as productivity. The pressure to do more. To be more. To prove that I could handle it all. I expected more from myself than I had to give, and silently expected others to understand without ever saying a word. Somewhere along the way, I forgot to pause. I forgot to breathe. I picked up self-help books, hoping to piece myself back together. I took a trip with close friends—hoping laughter and new scenery would heal what felt frayed inside. I even hiked a mountain, sat still at the summit, and waited for the wind to carry my restlessness away. And yes, in those moments, there was relief. A glimmer of calm. But it didn’t last. The peace I felt was fleeting—like a whisper you hear only to realize it’s already gone.

Then, something happened. One day, on a walk I hadn’t planned, I passed by a church. I wasn’t looking for it. I wasn’t even thinking about faith. But something in me stirred, like a memory I had been too tired to recall. I remembered Him. The One I had been avoiding, out of shame, out of guilt, out of fear that I’d been away too long. I stood outside that church with my heart suddenly cracked open. And in that moment, the heaviness I had carried met something holy. Grace. I realized I had been afraid—afraid that God wouldn’t welcome me back because I hadn’t been consistent. Because I had been distracted. Because I was messy and forgetful and tired. But even so, I opened my Bible that night. Hesitantly. Slowly. I whispered a prayer—not eloquent, not brave, just real. And He met me there. Not with judgment. Not with shame. But with quiet, steady love.

God is our rest. God is our refuge. God is our compass.

In my stillness, I was reminded of something I had forgotten: God is our rest. God is our refuge. God is our compass. Not just in moments of strength or spiritual discipline, but especially in our weakness, in our wanderings, in the quiet moments when we no longer know how to pray. He doesn’t withdraw when we drift. He doesn’t grow cold when we’re inconsistent. Even when we question, even when we hesitate, even when we forget—He stays. Always. Gently calling us home. Never forcing. Just waiting, arms open, with the kind of grace that doesn’t keep score.

So if you’re reading this and feel like you’ve lost yourself somewhere along the way—please hear this: You are not alone. You are not too far gone. You don’t have to fix everything before returning. God is not waiting for your perfection—only your presence. His grace is deeper than your exhaustion. His love is stronger than your guilt. And even now, in your weariness, He is reaching for you. Let that truth wrap around you like a warm blanket. Let it soothe what has been tired for far too long. You don’t have to have it all together to come back to God. You just have to come as you are.

With love,
Anj ❤