A few weeks ago, I sat in my car outside church and couldn’t make myself go in.
I wasn’t angry at God. I wasn’t having a crisis of faith. I was just tired — the kind of tired that sinks into your bones and makes even good things feel heavy. I stared at the entrance, watched people walk in smiling, holding coffee and toddlers, and I couldn’t help but think: I used to be one of them.
There was a time when I loved church. I didn’t have to drag myself there — I practically ran. In high school, I was all-in. Youth group, devotionals, retreats, mission trips — I was the girl with the color-coded Bible and a prayer journal so thick it barely closed. Jesus wasn’t just part of my life. He was my life.
And that energy didn’t just disappear the moment I graduated. For a while, it stayed with me. I carried it into college — where my faith started to grow in quieter, deeper ways. I began asking harder questions and letting go of the need for easy answers. I wrestled with doubt and still believed anyway. I read the works of Henri Nouwen and C.S. Lewis, led a campus ministry, and found friends who challenged me to keep going even when the feelings faded. My relationship with God was maturing, and I felt rooted. Grounded. Alive.
But no one prepares you for what happens when life speeds up and faith slows down.
After college, everything shifted. I moved to a new city. Started working full time. Juggled bills, rent, relationships, and the never-ending pressure to keep up. I tried to maintain my spiritual rhythms — morning devotionals, worship playlists, volunteering in kids’ ministry because someone needed to do it — but somewhere along the way, all of it started to feel like maintenance.
Faith, which once felt intimate and alive, became another task on my to-do list. Read a devotional. Check. Go to church. Check. Pray. Kind of. Check.
I didn’t walk away from God. I didn’t have some big dramatic deconstruction. But my relationship with Him started to feel like a job I didn’t remember signing up for. It was dutiful, mechanical — something I was supposed to do, not something I wanted to do. I was going through the motions, and I hated admitting how numb I felt.
What made it worse was the guilt. The voice in the back of my mind that whispered, You should be better than this. After everything God has done, after all the ways I’ve seen Him show up — how could I feel this empty? How could I not want to spend time with Him?
I tried to push through it. I downloaded new Bible reading plans. Joined a small group. Listened to sermons on my commute. I even scheduled “quiet time” in my planner like it was a meeting with HR. But the harder I tried to force my faith back into place, the more disconnected I felt. I couldn’t fake it anymore.
Even writing this feels uncomfortable. I want to be the kind of Christian who always has something wise to say. Someone with a fresh word or a deep insight. But lately, all I’ve had is exhaustion. The kind that makes you ghost your own spiritual life and hope God doesn’t take it personally.
Burnout isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s subtle — like a slow leak. You don’t realize how much you’ve lost until one day you’re sitting in the church parking lot, realizing you don’t even want to go inside.
And then, one Saturday, something shifted.
It was a rare free morning — no obligations, no plans. Normally I would’ve filled it with errands or lost the hours to mindless scrolling. But instead, I grabbed a book I hadn’t opened in years: The Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis. I took it to a coffee shop, ordered a lavender latte, and found a sunny spot by the window. No agenda. No pressure. I just wanted to sit with something that once meant something to me.
I flipped through the pages, past old underlines and scribbled notes. After re-reading some of my favorite passages,I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel some grand emotional breakthrough. But I did feel something stir — something I hadn’t felt in a while. A flicker of wonder. A reminder of what used to move me.
Since that morning, I’ve been trying something different. I’m not chasing a spiritual high or forcing a rigid routine. I’m just carving out space — real, intentional space — to reconnect with joy. Some weekends, that means rereading the books that first awakened my faith. Other days, it’s just sitting in silence with a worship song playing and letting it be enough.
I’m not “back on fire,” and honestly, I don’t think I need to be. Maybe it’s OK if faith doesn’t always feel electric. Maybe faith in adulthood looks a little more like showing up anyway. Not out of guilt, but out of hope that God still meets us in the quiet. In the ordinary. In the burnout, even.
What I’m learning — slowly, imperfectly — is that God doesn’t ask for performance. He doesn’t need the checklist. He’s not impressed by how many Bible plans I’ve completed. He just wants me — tired, honest, burnt-out me.
So no, I don’t have a dramatic comeback story. But I do have more grace for myself. I have a little more curiosity. And I have a quiet belief that God hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s just been waiting for me to sit still long enough to notice.
