I think the hardest paths in life are meant to be walked alone—like Jesus in Gethsemane or the road that led to the cross. These roads are traveled in silence—journeys of solitude where growth happens and change is accepted. When you walk alone, there are no distractions, no outside conversations to sway you, no well-meaning voices to mislead you.
When you go alone, you navigate without influence. You move forward without the need to please, without the pressure to collaborate or compromise. You learn to trust yourself and God with clarity. There’s no crutch, no one else to take the blame. You steer your own ship, run your own race, and answer only to yourself. You watch as everything that no longer serves you falls away like an old snake skin—without apologies.
There is a time for teamwork, and there is a time for growth. It’s almost like being in the womb again—most of the time, there is only space for one.
I have an aversion to people lately. Perhaps this is why. I need to go it alone, so I am withdrawing into that place. I don’t want conversation, crowds, church, or friends. I just don’t have the bandwidth. I am utterly exhausted from what feels like years of being talked at, corrected, judged. Nothing I say seems to land. People argue with me, try to disprove my views, dismiss my feelings and experiences. Most don’t really listen anyway. I’m leaving them behind now.
I’m starting to believe that this part of my life—the part I’m in right now—is something I have to walk through on my own. Not forever. But right now.
Jesus surrendered everything and walked alone to the cross. He gave up His friends, His comforts, His right to be right, His words, His pleas. He embraced total solitude, entering the dark night of His soul—stripped of everything and everyone—to grow into His purpose or prepare Him for it. It was a journey He had to take by Himself.
Lately, I’ve realized I’m not just tired—I’m exhausted in a way that feels deeper than rest can fix. It’s not physical. It’s the kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying too much for too long—too many expectations, too many conversations, too many moments of feeling unseen or unheard.
I don’t have the energy to explain myself anymore. I don’t have the energy to make people understand. Even simple conversation feels like work—like I’m supposed to show up with something to give. And right now, I have nothing left.
I’m tired of talking and not being heard. Tired of trying and feeling like it doesn’t land. Tired of giving and walking away empty. This has to happen in order to throw off society’s constraints that try to direct and control but also Jesus chose this I am forced into, perhaps becasue in his perfection he was able but in my imperfection I must be coerced by fatigue.
So I’ve gone quiet. Not because I don’t care, but because I don’t have anything left to give. I’m quiet in the ground. Maybe this is what it looks like before something shifts—before life breaks in on death, before growth springs up through the hard, winter soil.
I don’t have to be everything to everyone. I only have to be something to myself—and that requires a quiet walk, a silent surrender, and the courage to trust that walking alone can still lead to growth, change, and ultimately, restoration. Wasn’t that the hope of Christ? He died knowing it would lead to life.
My Faith Place 