Life has a way of testing the foundations we think are solid. One month you’re moving steadily through your plans, and the next you’re standing in the wreckage of what used to be your sense of security and reality.
A lost job. An eviction notice. A scholarship that slipped through your fingers after years of hard work. The kinds of moments that steal your breath and make you wonder if you somehow stepped out of your own story and into someone else’s.
There’s an ache that comes with these sudden collapses, an ache that settles into the ribs and hums there. It shakes your confidence, breaking any morale you had left. It disrupts your sleep and makes you cycle through so many mixed emotions. It makes you question your own worth.
These seasons feel like standing barefoot on shards of what used to be hope, unsure which step will draw blood and which will lead you forward. And yet, these are also the seasons when faith becomes more than a word you whisper at night. It becomes the thing you cling to the way a drowning person clings to driftwood. Not glamourous. Not tidy. But desperate and real.
Faith rarely arrives as a bolt of lightning or a booming voice from the clouds. It tends to come quietly, like stillness after a storm or a gentle nudge from within that says, “Try again.” Sometimes it’s a memory of a time you survived what you once thought you couldn’t. Sometimes it’s the unexpected generosity of someone who has no idea how badly you were breaking. Sometimes it’s just waking up with enough courage to open your eyes to a day you didn’t want to face.
Grounding yourself when you feel shaky
Grounding yourself in the midst of chaos takes practice, especially when fear keeps tugging you towards panic.
A simple ritual can become a lifeline. Stepping outside to feel the air on your skin. Touching your feet to the floor and taking a slow breath before your mind races to catastrophe. Whispering a prayer when all you can manage is a fragile, “Lord, help me.” Even washing a sink full of dishes can root you back in the world when your thoughts are spiralling. These quiet acts don’t erase the problem, but they remind your body that you’re still here, still capable of taking one small action at a time.
There’s a very famous story in Christian Scripture where Peter steps out of the boat to walk towards Jesus across the water. For a few staggering steps, he does the impossible, walking on water. But as soon as the wind howls and the waves rise, fear grabs him by the throat, and he sinks. In that moment of drowning terror, Jesus doesn’t lecture him or shame him. He simply reaches out a hand.
That image speaks to the very core of what it means to be human: to be brave and terrified all at once. We start out strong, trusting, even bold enough to walk on water, and then life throws its storms at us: the pink slip, the missed opportunity, the home we can no longer afford, the friend who disappeared when we needed them most, and sadly, the list goes on. The waves rise. Our courage falters and we begin to sink.
Faith asks us to loosen our grip and believe that we aren’t navigating these storms alone.
But the story doesn’t end underwater. It ends with a hand extended—a reminder that fear doesn’t disqualify us from being held.
Trusting in that hand, in that presence, can feel nearly impossible in the thick of disappointment. We’re creatures of control, wired to brace ourselves against the unknown. Yet, faith asks us to loosen our grip and believe that we aren’t navigating these storms alone. It doesn’t promise that our circumstances will instantly improve, and it doesn’t erase the grief or the consequences. But it does promise companionship, the kind that steadies your trembling legs enough to take the next brittle step.
Those devastating moments (the ones that hollow you out) often reveal the quiet resilience you didn’t know was within you. They rearrange the bones of your story, leaving room for you to rise from the ashes and begin writing the next chapter. They force you to learn how to overcome adversity in ways you never would have chosen.
When you’ve watched your plans crumble, your fear becomes too loud and your hope is nearly drowned out by the voices of anxiety and despair; nonetheless, every tiny step forward becomes an act of sacred defiance.
Taking the next step forward
Sometimes that next step is applying for a job you feel unqualified for and starting over where you can. Sometimes it’s calling a friend and admitting you’re not OK and could use an empathetic ear. Sometimes it’s packing your belongings into boxes and moving into a space you didn’t imagine for yourself. Sometimes it’s returning to school after failing the first time.
These moments aren’t glamourous triumphs. They’re quiet leaps of faith that declare, however softly, “I’m willing to try again.” And faith often grows in the trying. It grows when you keep showing up. It grows when you take risks that make your knees shake. It grows when you dare to hope that your story isn’t over, even when you can’t see its shape.
When life cracks open around you, it’s tempting to believe that the story is ending. Yet, so often those cracks are where the light gets in. They’re where real, lived-in strength takes root, and often, resilience doesn’t stun the world with heroics. It rises slowly, like morning light seeping in through the blinds. It builds with every choice to allow you to trust a little more, breathe a little deeper, and walk a little further even when the path ahead is fogged over.
Scripture as shelter during adversity
Some days, faith looks like reaching for a Bible verse you used to skim past and letting it settle into your bones, or saying a little prayer of lamentation or hope. The psalms are especially good companions in seasons of collapse, precisely because they’re full of people crying out in fear, confusion and despair, only to find themselves slowly steadied by the presence they seek.
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” Psalm 23 says, “I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” Notice it doesn’t say we should avoid the valley. We walk through it. Trembling, stumbling, but not abandoned.
Other days, faith looks like silence. Or a long drive with the windows cracked open. Or lighting a candle in the dimness of your kitchen at dawn because you need a reminder that darkness doesn’t get the final say.
When everything in you wants to quit, grounding yourself becomes a stubborn act of hope. It’s letting your breath anchor you. It’s letting your body remember the rhythm of life beyond the chaos. And little by little, this grounding makes room for the courage to take that next small step that nudges you back into the world.
A hand waiting in the storm
So, if you, like I have recently, also find yourself in the middle of a storm that has torn through your certainty, you’re not alone. The winds howl for all of us, sooner or later, but every storm is finite and every wave has a shoreline. Even in the darkest moments, when you’re sure you’re sinking faster than you can pray, there is a hand extended towards you, steady, patient and unwavering.
The path forward may not look heroic. It may be messy, slow and unremarkable to anyone who’s watching from the outside. But to the one taking the steps, every inch forward is a testament to courage and faith stitched together in the dark.
Therefore, walk anyway, for even shaky steps are steps. And in the walking, you just might find that the ground beneath you is steadier than you thought, and that the One who calls you forward has been beside you, all along the water, all along the storm.
«RELATED READ» HOPE AND FAITH: How to parent when the world feels like it’s burning»
images: Depositphotos
