How to Discern Without Losing Your Mind: A Catholic Guide to Finding Peace in Big Decisions

 

Discernment can feel like spiritual whiplash.
You want to make the right choice. You want to follow God's will. But every option feels layered with fear, uncertainty, or silence from heaven.

Here’s the good news:
God isn’t trying to trick you. He’s not hiding the map.

He wants you to know His will more than you want to guess it.

Let’s reclaim discernment—not as a source of spiritual anxiety, but as an invitation into peace.

Step 1: Begin With Who God Is

Discernment doesn’t start with decisions. It starts with trust in God’s character.

• He is not manipulative

• He is not cryptic

• He is not impatient

• He is not waiting for you to mess up

“If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God… and it will be given.” — James 1:5

God’s will isn’t a riddle. It’s a relationship.
He doesn’t drop clues and hide. He walks with us, gently guiding, correcting, and inviting. The voice of the Father is not a trickster—it is steady, wise, and faithful.

When you begin with who He is, you stop fearing what He’ll say. Because even if His answer is challenging, it will never be cruel.

Step 2: Clarity Follows Conversion

Sometimes we want answers without surrender.
But God’s will becomes clearest in the heart that says, “Whatever You ask, I’ll do it.”

That kind of interior freedom opens doors.

Ask yourself:

• Am I really open to either path?

• Am I clinging to one answer for fear-based reasons?

• Have I let God into the emotions beneath my questions?

Sometimes, before God speaks to your situation, He wants to speak to your attachment.
Discernment is less about unlocking secret knowledge and more about receiving wisdom with open hands.

Step 3: Don’t Confuse Silence with Absence

If God is quiet, it doesn’t always mean you’re on the wrong path.
It may mean you already have what you need.

He has given you:

• Scripture

• The Holy Spirit

• Your conscience

• The Church

• Your reason

• Your community

If you’re not hearing a trumpet blast, try asking:
What decision, made in peace, would I be able to live out in love?

And if you're feeling overwhelmed, pause. Take a walk. Step into silence. The Lord often speaks best in stillness.

Step 4: Peace Is the Path, Not Just the Prize

God’s will is often marked by a deep, durable peace—even if it comes with fear or sacrifice.
It won’t always be easy. But it will be rooted.

If anxiety is driving your discernment, pause. Wait until peace returns.

“Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts…” — Colossians 3:15

Peace doesn’t always feel like emotional comfort. Sometimes, it’s simply the absence of that interior twist. A stillness. A rightness. A steadiness under the nerves.

Step 5: Take the Next Right Step

Discernment is rarely about seeing the whole road.
It’s usually about taking the next faithful step.

Make the call. Fill out the form. Start the novena. Open the door.
Small obedience invites bigger clarity.

Sometimes we stall because we’re afraid of choosing wrong. But God is bigger than our mistakes. A wrong turn taken in faith is still under His care. What He asks is that we move in trust.

Discernment doesn’t mean waiting until every light is green. It means choosing with love, praying for wisdom, and stepping forward in peace.

Final Reflection

Discernment doesn’t have to feel like walking a tightrope.
It can feel like walking with your Father.

God isn’t holding a secret scorecard.
He’s holding your hand.

“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light for my path.” — Psalm 119:105

Walk with Him. Listen. Rest.
And trust that even if you take a wrong turn, He knows how to get you home.

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What Does Holiness Feel Like? And Why We’re Usually Wrong About It

 

For many of us, holiness has been portrayed as something... otherworldly. A glowing saint in a fresco. A nun in deep silence. A mystic floating in ecstasy. And while those images reflect truth, they don’t capture the whole story.

Holiness isn’t just for those who seem spiritually elite. It isn’t reserved for monks, mystics, or martyrs. Holiness is for you. And chances are, it feels a lot more normal than you think.

Let’s reframe how we imagine sanctity—not just by theology, but by experience.

Myth: Holiness Always Feels Intense

Some people assume holiness will come with strong emotional or mystical sensations. And yes, sometimes God does meet us with tears, awe, or unexplainable peace.

But often, holiness feels… quiet. Unspectacular. Like doing what is right when no one sees. Like saying no to temptation with no applause. Like staying faithful in prayer even when it’s dry and boring.

“You will know them by their fruits…” — Matthew 7:16
Not their feelings. Not their vibes. Their fruits.

The idea that holiness must feel emotionally intense can become a spiritual trap. If we chase emotional highs instead of virtue, we risk confusing consolation with transformation. God may grant sweetness in prayer at times, but that is not the measure of our sanctity.

Truth: Holiness Feels Like Peaceful Surrender

Holiness is not about constant triumph—it’s about constant return.
It’s the soul that says, “Here I am, Lord,” again and again, in every season.

It often feels like:

• A subtle peace even in the middle of uncertainty

• A desire to love when it would be easier to detach

• A quiet conscience after a hard conversation

• A willingness to ask for forgiveness—or give it—when pride wants to win

• A gentle resolve to pray, even when the heart feels empty

Holiness feels like a life slowly, steadily aligned with the will of God.
Not always dramatic. But always true.

It’s the cumulative effect of small decisions made with love. And sometimes, it feels like exhaustion... with purpose.

What It Doesn’t Feel Like (and Why That’s Okay)

It may not feel like:

• Constant happiness

• Being “on fire” for God every day

• Perpetual confidence

• An absence of doubt, fatigue, or dryness

Some of the holiest people in history (like St. Thérèse of Lisieux or Mother Teresa) endured long periods of spiritual dryness. Their holiness wasn’t in their feelings—it was in their fidelity.

“Faith is not a feeling. It is a choice to trust God even when the road is dark.”

If you’ve ever kept praying when your soul felt flat—that was holiness. If you’ve ever served someone with love while feeling tired and unseen—that was holiness. If you’ve ever refused to give up hope when the world felt empty—that was holiness too.

Holiness is Often Hidden

Just like Jesus’ hidden life in Nazareth, much of our sanctity is grown in the unseen places:

• How we treat those who annoy us

• How we speak about others when they’re not in the room

• How we hold space for grief, pain, or mystery without rushing to fix it

This is the soil of holiness. Not shiny. Not loud. Just faithful.

Our culture often equates goodness with visibility. But God delights in what is hidden, offered in secret, and formed in silence. Your small "yes" echoes louder in Heaven than you know.

The Surprise of Joy

While holiness isn’t always emotionally intense, it often leads to a kind of quiet joy—not because everything is easy, but because everything is surrendered.

That joy might feel like:

• Gratitude for a moment of beauty

• Peace after telling the truth

• Relief from bitterness after forgiveness

• The warmth of giving without expectation

This is the joy the world can’t give—and cannot take away. A joy that doesn’t depend on outcomes, but on nearness to the heart of God.

Final Reflection

Holiness doesn’t always feel like glory.
Sometimes it feels like doing the dishes. Sometimes it feels like starting over. Sometimes it feels like a tired but honest “yes.”

And that is enough.
God isn’t asking for your performance. He’s asking for your presence.

“Be holy, for I am holy.” — 1 Peter 1:16
He’s not asking you to feel holy. He’s asking you to live in love.

You are not disqualified by your dryness, your ordinariness, or your struggle.
You are right where holiness can begin.

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Good Friday: Love That Suffers and Stays

 

Good Friday does not rush. It does not explain. It does not defend or tidy up.

It simply stays.

It stays at the foot of the Cross, while the world darkens and love bleeds.

Good Friday is not a performance. It is an invitation to be present to a sorrow that does not resolve neatly, to a love so deep it chose the nails.

Through the mystery of the Church's liturgy, we are not just remembering a death that happened long ago. We are standing inside the hour when God laid down His life for love of us.

Let's walk slowly. Let's not look away.

The Solemn Entrance: Silence That Speaks

Good Friday begins not with music, not with words, but with a profound, aching silence.

The priest and ministers process in and then fall to the ground in full prostration before the stripped altar. The people kneel.

The silence says everything.

What it looks like to me: When I kneel in that silence, I feel the world hold its breath. I feel the weight of every wound, every grief. I feel how desperately we need a Savior.

A way to live it: Let the silence open your heart. Do not fill it too quickly with words. Let your heart break a little.

The Passion: Love That Pours Itself Out

The Gospel of John is proclaimed slowly, unhurriedly. Every word of Christ's Passion is spoken aloud: the betrayal, the arrest, the denials, the trial, the scourging, the way of the Cross.

There are no shortcuts. No quick resolutions.

We walk each step with Him.

Some churches include a dramatic reading, with different voices. Others chant it in a haunting, almost otherworldly tone. However it is proclaimed, the weight of it sinks into the bones.

What it looks like to me: I listen for the sound of the whip. I hear the crowd shouting for Barabbas. I see His eyes, steady and sorrowful, meeting mine across centuries.

A way to live it: When you hear the Passion today, don't just "listen to a story." Stand within it. Let yourself be known by the One who carries every sorrow for you.

The Great Intercessions: A World Laid Bare

After the Passion, the Church prays the Great Intercessions — prayers for the Church, for the world, for the suffering, for the unbelievers, for all.

It is the most expansive moment of the year: the Church lifts up the whole wounded world to the mercy of Christ.

What it looks like to me: As each intercession is sung or spoken, I imagine the prayers rising like incense from every corner of the earth — from hospital beds, from broken homes, from lonely streets, from secret prayers whispered by those who don’t even know they believe.

A way to live it: Offer your own hidden intentions. No suffering is too small to be brought to the Cross.

The Veneration of the Cross: Love That Stretches Wide

Then comes the most intimate moment: the Veneration of the Cross.

The Cross is brought forward, usually veiled. Slowly, it is unveiled, piece by piece:

• "Behold the wood of the Cross, on which hung the salvation of the world."

• "Come, let us adore."

The people approach one by one — to touch, to kiss, to kneel.

It is not an idol we adore. It is the instrument of love’s victory.

What it looks like to me: When I kneel before the Cross, I see not only Christ's wounds, but the wounds He carries for me. I see the bruises I have caused, and the healing He pours out.

I kiss the Cross with trembling, grateful lips.

A way to live it: Venerate with your whole heart. Bring your weariness. Bring your sin. Bring your longing. Lay it all at the foot of Love.

The Stations of the Cross: Walking the Road Beside Him

Many parishes pray the Stations of the Cross on Good Friday. We follow Jesus through the 14 stations:

• His condemnation

• His falls

• His meeting with His Mother

• Simon helping Him

• Veronica offering her veil

• The crucifixion and death

Each station is a step deeper into His suffering and His mercy.

What it looks like to me: At each Station, I find myself not only witnessing, but accompanying. I become Simon, Veronica, the weeping women. I become the beloved disciple. I become the one Christ looks at with mercy.

A way to live it: Walk the Stations slowly. Let your heart break and be remade at each stop.

The Silence: Love That Holds the World

Good Friday ends without a final blessing.

There is no dismissal.

We leave in silence.

The Church herself seems to hold her breath, waiting.

What it looks like to me: As I walk out into the dimming day, I feel the world tilting, waiting for something it cannot name. The ache of absence is real. And it is holy.

A way to live it: Let the silence linger. Do not rush to distract yourself. Carry the weight of Love into the hours that follow.

Closing

Good Friday is not a day to "fix" anything.

It is a day to stay.

Stay at the Cross.

Stay with Love.

Stay with the One who stayed for you.

Stay with the pierced hands that still bless.

Stay with the broken heart that still beats for you.

Stay until the silence speaks, until grief births hope, until death begins to tremble.

Stay.

He stayed for you.

The Temptation to Disappear: When Faith Feels Like Too Much to Hold

There are days—maybe even seasons—when faith feels less like a comfort and more like a burden. You believe. You pray. You show up. And yet, something inside begins to fray. It’s not disbelief that haunts you, but exhaustion. The ache of being seen and expected and spiritually responsible. The weight of carrying your soul through another hard day.

This is the temptation to disappear. Not in rebellion or rejection—but in quiet retreat. A gentle fade. A longing to step offstage, unnoticed. To not be asked to trust or persevere or testify. To slip into some kind of holy anonymity where no one needs anything from you—not even God.

And here is the hidden mercy: even this ache is known to Him.

When Faith Feels Like a Heavy Garment

Sometimes the spiritual practices that once sustained you begin to feel like too much. Prayer feels dry. Mass feels distant. Scripture reads like sand. You look around and see others thriving in their spiritual life and wonder what’s broken in you.

But nothing is broken. You are simply human.

Faith is not an escape from being human. It is a way of walking through it with God. And being human means there will be days when belief feels heavy, when hope stretches thin, and when love must become a choice more than a feeling.

This is not failure. It is fidelity.

The God Who Finds You in Spiritual Exhaustion

If you find yourself longing to disappear—to stop trying, to stop showing up—remember this: God does not require you to hold Him up. You are not responsible for sustaining divine love. He is.

God is not afraid of your silence or weariness. He does not recoil when you pull back. In fact, Scripture is full of stories where God seeks the one who withdraws: Elijah under the broom tree. Hagar in the desert. Peter after the denial.

Each time, God doesn’t scold. He comes close. He meets them with food, rest, a question, or a gentle restoration.

Faith as Surrender, Not Performance

Modern life often teaches us that faith should be productive. That we should always be growing, bearing fruit, testifying. But the truth is, there are seasons when faith looks like letting yourself be held.

The temptation to disappear is often a sign that you need rest, not reprimand. That your soul is asking for mercy. That you’ve been trying to do too much alone.

In these moments, faith is not a performance to maintain but a surrender to receive.

You don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to stay visible to stay loved. God sees you, even in the quiet retreat. He knows when you’ve given all you can. And He is already coming to find you—not to demand more, but to carry you.

Honoring the Ache Without Erasing It

If you’re in a season where faith feels too heavy, honor it. Don’t rush to fix it. Instead, try these gentle practices to support your spiritual mental health:

• Name what hurts. Be honest with God about your exhaustion, your numbness, your fear of being too much or not enough. He already knows.

• Find one safe space. It doesn’t have to be a full church group or spiritual director—just one person who can sit with you without trying to fix you.

• Let go of performance. If your prayers are wordless sighs, that’s enough. If Mass feels hard, just go and let yourself rest in the presence.

• Mark small mercies. Keep a simple list—not of victories, but of graces. A moment of peace. A verse that catches your breath. A kindness received.

Why You’re Still Called to Spiritual Community

It might feel easier to stay isolated. To disappear not just from God, but from His people. But the call to community isn’t about meeting obligations—it’s about being held when your own strength runs out.

We are not made to carry faith alone. Christian community reminds us we are not the only ones who ache, or falter, or doubt. It is where God’s love often arrives with skin on.

To ease back in:

• Choose presence over pressure. You don’t have to talk. Just show up.

• Start with small proximity. Sit in a pew. Join a potluck. Send a message. Let yourself be near others without forcing connection.

• Ask for prayers, not solutions. Sometimes what we need most is to be gently remembered in someone else’s talk with God.

Let Yourself Be Found by God’s Mercy

Let yourself be found. Even if it means disappearing for a little while.

Not into despair. Not into hiding. But into rest.

Into the arms of the God who never stops looking for you.

Into a faith that includes your quiet seasons. Into a community that can hold your silences. Into the mercy that honors your humanity as much as your hope.

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Sacramentality in Everyday Life: How to See Grace in the Ordinary

Looking for a deeper way to live your Catholic faith? The Catholic sacramental worldview teaches us that God is not confined to churches and chapels—He is present in our kitchens, our grief, our laughter, and even our laundry piles. This article explores how to recognize God's grace in everyday life through the lens of sacramentality.

There is a particular kind of beauty in Catholicism that often goes unnoticed until you’ve lived with it a while. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t even always feel spiritual. But it’s there—woven into the rhythm of the liturgical year, the shape of prayer, and the quiet conviction that matter matters.

That’s the heart of sacramentality—and one of the most life-giving elements of Catholic spirituality.

I first learned this not in a theology textbook, but at my kitchen sink—praying the Divine Mercy Chaplet while scrubbing burnt rice from the bottom of a pot. It wasn’t profound. But it was real. That’s how sacramentality often begins: not with lightning, but with presence.

What Is Sacramentality?

Sacramentality is the belief that God's grace can be revealed through material things—not just symbolically, but truly. It's the theological foundation for the seven sacraments, of course. In Baptism, it’s not just water. In the Eucharist, it’s not just bread and wine. These are real encounters with God, mediated through creation.

But sacramentality isn’t limited to those seven sacred moments. It’s also a way of seeing. A Catholic worldview. A posture of reverence toward the world God made and the ways He continues to reveal Himself through it. As the Catechism puts it:

“God speaks to man through the visible creation. The material cosmos is so presented to man’s intelligence that he can not only read therein the existence of the Creator but also discover in it the beauty, order, and love that flow from Him.” (CCC 1147)

In other words, God didn’t stop speaking when the canon closed. The world, in all its tangibility, continues to proclaim Him.

And that’s not just poetic language—it’s a lived theology. The sacramental worldview is part of what makes Catholicism distinct among Christian traditions. We don’t treat the body and soul as rivals. We don’t see the physical world as a distraction from God. Instead, we see it as the very medium He uses to reach us.

Catholic Sacramentality in Daily Life

So what does this look like in a practical sense? It means that grace is not confined to the sanctuary. It means that the smell of bread baking in your kitchen can become a holy invitation. It means the feel of your child’s hand in yours on a hard day might be a divine reassurance. It means that when you light a candle and say a prayer over your laundry pile, heaven leans in.

God doesn’t just work through ordained ministers. He works through mothers, cooks, janitors, and artists. Through grief and laughter. Through touch and taste and texture. Through mud and light and lemon zest.

It also means we don’t need to compartmentalize our lives. Your body brushing your teeth in the morning? That’s not just hygiene—it’s participation in the dignity of being alive. Your grocery list? A reminder that Christ Himself once asked, “Do you have anything to eat?”

In my own life, I’ve seen sacramentality appear in the quiet insistence to make soup for a sick friend, in the reverence of washing dishes by hand while humming the Salve Regina, in the way incense clings to my sweater long after the Vigil Mass has ended.

This kind of grace doesn’t shout. But it stays.

Sacramentality vs. Sentimentality

It’s important to say this clearly: sacramentality is not sentimentality. This is not about romanticizing pain or pretending everything is beautiful. It’s about seeing the real beauty that is there—often hidden under layers of exhaustion, distraction, or fear. Sacramentality doesn’t ask us to deny suffering. It asks us to pay attention to how God meets us in it.

When Jesus healed people, He touched them. When He fed them, He used what was at hand. When He suffered, He bled real blood. Our faith is incarnational. If God became flesh, then nothing truly human is foreign to Him.

This matters deeply for those who are grieving, burned out, or chronically ill. When you can’t “feel spiritual,” the sacramental worldview reminds you that your ordinary life—your aching knees, your peppermint tea, your breath in the cold—is not a barrier to grace. It may be the very way grace is reaching you.

How to See Grace in the Ordinary

Like anything sacred, sacramentality takes practice. Most of us don’t drift into this kind of seeing—we learn it over time. Sometimes through study, but more often through silence. Through repetition. Through relationship.

If you want to cultivate a sacramental view of life, start small:

• Bless your meals slowly, not just out of habit, but with gratitude.

• Light a candle while folding laundry or writing emails—let it be a sign of God’s presence.

• Name the grace in your day aloud, even if it feels small.

• Kiss your children on the head like you mean it. That, too, can be liturgy.

• Create altars in ordinary places—your dashboard, your kitchen windowsill, the inside of your coat.

• Let the liturgical calendar shape your rhythms—let Advent slow you down, let Lent stretch you, let Easter fill your table with color and feast.

And above all, go to the sacraments themselves. Because the grace that flows through Eucharist and Reconciliation doesn’t stay confined there—it spills out into the rest of your life, if you let it.

The World Is Charged With Glory

Catholics sometimes get accused of being too fixated on ritual or too mystical about objects. But the truth is, the world is already full of God—it’s our dullness, not His absence, that makes us miss it. As the poet-priest Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote:

“The world is charged with the grandeur of God.”

We are the ones being recharged, re-sensitized, reawakened.

The goal isn’t to become a romantic. It’s to become a realist of grace. To be the kind of person who notices the Kingdom breaking through in the most mundane places. To see prayer not as escape from life, but as deeper presence within it.

So don’t wait for the big moment. The spiritual life doesn’t always look like mountaintop conversions. It often looks like Tuesday. Like compost. Like rosary beads in your coat pocket. Like coffee with someone you love. Like the sacred pause before you open your front door.

Let God meet you there.

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You can explore this theme more deeply in my upcoming Lectio Divina Journal and seasonal reflections at ko-fi.com/convertingtohope. If you're building a life rooted in grace and sacramental Catholic living, you're not alone.

Catholic, Autistic, and Beloved: Finding God When You Feel Like a Misfit

Intro: The Faith Was Never Meant to Be a Social Test

If you’ve ever sat in a pew and felt completely out of place—not because you didn’t love God, but because the way church feels doesn’t fit your brain—you’re not alone.

If incense makes your head spin, if eye contact during the Sign of Peace fills you with dread, if small talk outside the sanctuary feels harder than confession—this is for you.

Autistic Catholics exist. We’re not broken. And we are not spiritual failures because we find religious environments overwhelming or confusing. We are not misfits in the kingdom of God.

We belong—not despite our neurology, but within it. God made us whole. And that includes the parts that don’t blend in easily.

This reflection draws from personal experience, spiritual direction sessions, and years of walking with other neurodivergent believers who love their faith but often feel alien in the pews. You’re not broken. You’re beloved.

If you’ve ever searched for phrases like “autistic Catholic,” “neurodivergent and church,” or “faith when you feel like a misfit,” you’re in the right place.

When You’re Too “Much” or “Not Enough” for Church Culture

Church spaces—especially in parishes that lean social or extroverted—can sometimes feel like a constant test of your capacity to perform neurotypical behavior. There’s pressure to:

• Smile even when your body is shutting down

• Join groups that move too fast and talk too much

• Make sense of metaphors that feel imprecise

• Participate in “fellowship” that leaves you more drained than nourished

For many autistic Catholics, these pressures don’t just cause discomfort—they create spiritual dissonance. We start to wonder: If this is what belonging looks like, is there something wrong with me that I can’t do it?

There isn’t.

The Church is richer than its social surface. Your belonging isn’t measured by how well you fake being comfortable. It’s measured by the fact that you were baptized into the Body of Christ—and nothing can undo that.

I’ve heard this time and again from autistic Catholics I’ve counseled and spoken with: “I love Jesus. I just can’t do church.” That tension is real—and it’s not evidence of failure. It’s evidence of deep desire trying to find real expression.

This section touches on a common concern among people searching for “can autistic people be Catholic” or “Catholicism and social anxiety.”

What the Faith Gets Right (and What We Sometimes Miss)

Catholicism, in its fullness, is profoundly sensory and structured. That’s not a bug—it’s a feature. For many autistic folks, the beauty of liturgy, the predictability of the Mass, the deep symbolism of the sacraments, and the rhythm of the liturgical year offer stability.

But what the culture around it sometimes gets wrong is assuming that holiness always looks social, expressive, or emotionally demonstrative. And that just isn’t true.

Some of the Church’s greatest mystics were profoundly interior. Some of its most faithful souls were quiet, awkward, or deeply misunderstood. Autistic Catholics are part of that lineage.

You don’t have to love coffee hour to love Jesus.

In spiritual writing and formation groups I’ve led, I’ve watched autistic Catholics thrive when given space to engage on their terms—through structure, intellect, beauty, or silence. There is no one neurotypical path to holiness.

People looking for “Catholic sensory-friendly Mass,” “autism and liturgy,” or “introvert in Catholic Church” will find language here that affirms their experience.

Finding a Language for Faith That Makes Sense

One of the hardest parts of autistic spirituality is finding language that feels right. You might wrestle with:

• Abstract devotional language that feels emotionally manipulative

• Praise-and-worship environments that flood your senses

• Homilies that lean heavily on metaphor or unwritten social assumptions

• Spiritual direction that asks you to emote in ways that aren’t accessible to you

These struggles aren’t a lack of faith. They’re differences in processing. And you’re allowed to find different ways in.

You’re allowed to pray through structure, through movement, through silence. You’re allowed to sit in Mass without singing. You’re allowed to say, “I’m here, Lord,” without knowing what you feel.

God doesn’t need you to perform. He just wants you present.

I’ve walked with autistic adults who finally found peace through the Divine Office, or visual meditation on icons, or tactile prayers like rosary beads. When the Church’s tools are offered without pressure to conform, they open real doorways.

Jesus Knew Misfits. He Loved Them on Purpose.

Christ consistently reached for the ones who didn’t quite belong. The socially awkward. The emotionally intense. The ones who got labeled too much—or not enough. The ones who had to step outside the crowd to be themselves.

He didn’t just tolerate them. He chose them.

And He chooses you, too.

Not when you’re masking well enough to pass.
Not when you’ve fixed all the things that make you “difficult.”
Not when you’re finally fluent in group dynamics.

Now. As you are.

You don’t have to “fit” the culture to belong in the Church. You already do. You are Catholic. You are autistic. And you are deeply, unshakably loved.

This is not just comfort. It’s truth—rooted in scripture and tradition. Jesus says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). That includes those burdened by invisible labor, sensory overwhelm, and social exhaustion.

If you're searching for “Jesus and neurodivergence” or “Catholic autism support,” this is your sign you’ve found home.

Want to explore your faith through a lens that honors neurodivergence and spiritual depth? Subscribe to Converting to Hope for weekly reflections, or visit our Ko-Fi page to access journaling tools, printable prayer guides, and neurodivergent-friendly spiritual resources. 

The Role of Anger in Conversion: When Holiness and Justice Meet

Intro: The Anger You Didn’t Expect

Anger isn’t something most people associate with conversion. Awe, repentance, relief—sure. But anger? That seems out of place. And yet for many of us, anger was the first honest emotion that surfaced when we started walking toward God.

Maybe you were angry at a Church that had wounded you.
Maybe you were angry at injustice—personal, global, systemic.
Maybe you were angry because the truth cracked something open, and everything you built to survive came tumbling down.

If any of that rings true, you’re not broken. You’re not faithless. You’re just waking up. And your anger might be one of the clearest signs that God is doing something real in you.

I’ve seen this not just in my own journey, but in others I’ve walked with—especially those coming to faith after spiritual abuse, deconstruction, or years of moral disillusionment. Anger doesn’t mean you’re rejecting God. It means you’re letting go of the things that never belonged to Him.

This post is for anyone searching terms like anger and faith, righteous anger in Catholicism, or spiritual healing after church hurt. You’re not alone in this tension—and you’re not off-track for feeling what you feel.

Why Anger Shows Up in Conversion

Conversion is a movement toward God—but it’s also a movement through everything that’s been in the way.

And when you begin to see the truth of who God is—His holiness, His justice, His mercy—it casts light on all the ways the world has been unholy, unjust, and unkind. That light reveals things. And sometimes what it reveals… hurts.

You begin to notice:

• The ways you were harmed by people who claimed to represent Christ

• The ways others are still being harmed

• The silence of churches in the face of injustice

• The gap between the Gospel you now see and the version you were taught

This is holy anger. Not because it’s perfect—but because it’s born of truth. The prophet Isaiah didn’t shrink from naming injustice (Isaiah 10:1–3). Jesus flipped tables in the Temple (Matthew 21:12–13). St. Catherine of Siena wrote boldly to Church leaders, calling out spiritual rot. Anger isn’t the enemy of holiness. It can be the beginning of it.

If you’ve ever Googled is it okay to be angry at the Church? or anger in spiritual growth, this section is for you.

Anger as a Sign of Love

Underneath most anger is love. You’re angry because you care.
You’re angry because dignity matters.
You’re angry because God matters—and He’s not being reflected in the places that bear His name.

That kind of anger is not something to push down or sanitize. It’s something to pray with.

Bring it into the light. Rage if you must. Let it burn away what’s false.
Because sometimes, anger is what happens when your heart is finally aligned with God’s own.

In spiritual direction and mentoring, I’ve had the privilege of hearing these stories—people who thought they were “too angry to be holy,” when in fact they were finally experiencing the kind of moral clarity that makes holiness possible. When rightly directed, that fire becomes a forge.

Searches like anger and spiritual maturity or Catholic anger and justice point to a deep hunger: we want to believe it’s possible to feel this way and still belong.

What to Do With Your Anger

You don’t have to resolve your anger before you belong in the Church.
You don’t have to pretend you’re peaceful to be welcomed at the altar.

But you do have to bring it to God.

Here’s how that might look:

• Pray the Psalms. Let David’s raw honesty be your model. (Psalm 13, Psalm 22, Psalm 94)

• Name your anger. Be specific. Is it toward people? Institutions? Your own silence?

• Ask God to guide it. Not to erase it—but to direct it toward restoration.

• Find safe space. Spiritual direction, trauma-aware confession, or just one friend who won’t flinch when you’re honest.

If your anger feels too sharp to pray with, know this: God already knows it. You’re not hiding anything by staying silent. But you are missing the chance to let Him join you in it.

Anger That Purifies

In the Catholic tradition, anger has long been understood as both a potential vice and a potential virtue. Righteous anger—the kind that moves us to protect the vulnerable or reject corruption—is not sinful. It’s necessary.

When stewarded well, anger becomes a fire that purifies rather than destroys.

• It helps us reject false idols.

• It makes us brave enough to say “not here, not again.”

• It reveals what we’ve tolerated that never should have been acceptable.

Conversion doesn’t just turn us toward God. It also turns us away from anything that degrades His image in us or others. And that turning can feel like grief, like fury, like fire. That doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It might mean it’s real.

St. Thomas Aquinas argued that the absence of anger in the face of injustice is actually a failure of love. Let that reframe what you’ve been taught about meekness. Holiness does not mean disengagement. Sometimes, it looks like getting loud.

Final Thought: Holiness Is Not Passivity

If you’ve ever been told that anger is unholy, remember this:

Holiness isn’t passivity.
Holiness is not smiling quietly while others are crushed.
Holiness burns—clean, steady, and full of justice.

If you’re angry in your conversion story, you’re in good company. The saints, the prophets, and Christ Himself have all carried fire.

Don’t be afraid of yours. Let it teach you what matters. Let it burn what needs to go. Let it be holy.

Want to explore your conversion story with more honesty and depth? Subscribe to Converting to Hope for weekly reflections, or visit our Ko-Fi page for guided prayer tools, journals, and conversion resources. Keywords like Catholic conversion resources and spiritual growth with trauma are part of what we speak into every week.

Why the Church Feels Slow—And Why That Might Be Okay

Subjects Covered: Catholic conversion, waiting for sacraments, OCIA experience, faith formation, Catholic patience

There’s a common ache among adult converts, especially those of us coming from high-energy Protestant communities: Catholicism can feel slow.

The parish calendar moves at a different pace than we’re used to. Discernment takes months or years. Sacraments unfold slowly, often through complex processes. It’s not unusual to feel like you’re endlessly waiting—for clarity, for paperwork, for permission, for someone to see how ready you are.

And in that waiting, it’s easy to feel forgotten.

But what if that slowness is part of the Church’s fidelity, not its flaw?

The Fast Church We Left Behind

When my husband and I began this journey, we brought with us years of experience in fast-paced ministry. We were used to momentum. We were used to altar calls that pulled you forward in a rush of emotion. We were used to communities that equated movement with faithfulness.

So it felt disorienting to sit in stillness.

We weren’t used to spiritual growth unfolding over liturgical seasons. We weren’t used to waiting months just to complete paperwork, or discerning vocation over a yearlong timeline. We had to learn not to interpret that stillness as a lack of care—but rather, as care of a different kind.

It’s not that we stopped growing. It’s that growth was happening underground.

Many of us came from faith traditions that moved fast. Worship was emotionally charged. Decisions were made quickly. You could declare yourself saved, step forward at the altar, and be baptized on the same day. The response was immediate, the energy was tangible, and the sense of spiritual movement was constant.

That rhythm shaped us. It taught us to expect transformation in real time. To expect quick answers. To equate spiritual aliveness with visible activity.

So when we land in the Catholic Church and are asked to slow down—to submit to long processes, to wait for seasons to change—it can feel like we’ve hit a wall.

Slow Isn’t the Same as Cold

If you’ve ever felt like no one sees how urgently you want to belong—you’re not imagining it. But you’re also not alone. Many converts feel that ache.

But the Church moves slowly because she takes sacred things seriously. The Catechism teaches that the sacraments are not private declarations but divine actions that configure us to Christ (CCC 1116: Sacraments of the Church). And divine things—like Eucharist, reconciliation, and confirmation—require preparation, not performance.

The Church is not being dismissive. She’s being faithful. Slow grace is not lesser grace. It’s the kind that settles deep, changes your instincts, and shapes you for the long road.

But here’s what I’ve learned: the slowness of the Church isn’t apathy. It’s reverence.

The Catholic Church doesn’t rush because what she’s offering is real. Sacraments aren’t symbolic—they’re embodied. They do something. And anything that sacred is approached with caution and care.

It may feel like people don’t understand your urgency. But what’s actually happening is that the Church is choosing formation over transaction, discernment over impulse, and depth over spectacle.

The slowness is deliberate. And sometimes, it’s a mercy.

It’s Okay to Feel Impatient

I’ll be honest—there have been moments when I’ve felt the ache of waiting. While our own OCIA team has been deeply kind and attentive, the larger systems—like the tribunal or diocesan offices—sometimes moved at a pace that felt glacial. In those quiet, uncertain stretches, I occasionally wondered if we’d slipped through the cracks.

But every time I brought that ache into prayer, I heard something quiet and unshakable: This is forming you. Not punishing. Not sidelining. Forming.

The slowness forced me to listen more. To reflect more. To dig past emotional surges and ask deeper questions about faith and trust.

The USCCB reminds us that formation is not just intellectual—it’s personal and relational (source). What feels like delay is often invitation—into deeper knowing, deeper surrender, and deeper communion with the Church herself.

Still, the struggle is real. It’s okay to feel frustrated by the pace. It’s okay to feel restless. That doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong.

There’s a sacred tension between the fire in your heart and the pace of the institutional Church. Hold that tension gently.

You’re not alone. Many converts walk this same path—eager, uncertain, wondering if they’ll ever feel fully caught up.

But over time, that slowness becomes something else. It becomes rhythm. It becomes rootedness. It becomes space to breathe.

Catholic Devotional Tools for Trusting the Wait

Sometimes what we need most in the waiting is a physical reminder to pause, breathe, and trust. That’s where sacred objects come in—not as magical solutions, but as gentle anchors.

I keep a Tiny Saints St. Monica Keychain on my bag. It’s a cheerful little reminder that patient, faithful waiting can be powerful—because St. Monica waited 17 years for her son’s conversion. And her persistence bore fruit.

On my desk is a small Saint Elizabeth (Mother of John the Baptist) figurine. She reminds me that joy sometimes arrives late—and that unexpected hope is holy, too.

If you’re navigating a season where grace feels slow, surrounding yourself with reminders of saints who understood waiting can be quietly transformative.

Final Thought: Embracing the Slow Work of God

If you’re in this in-between place, I want you to hear this from someone walking it with you: You are not behind. You are not forgotten. And you are not disqualified because the calendar hasn’t caught up to your heart.

You are becoming Catholic in the marrow. You are participating in the Church’s slow grace. And that counts.

If you need a place to feel seen in the meantime, we’ve built Converting to Hope for you—for all of us—who are finding holiness in the hesitation. We are your companions in the waiting, not because we’ve finished it, but because we’ve chosen to stay.

Take heart. The slow Church sees you. And so does Christ.

You may feel stuck, but you’re still becoming.

God’s timeline is not dictated by parish schedules. Your growth is not stalled because someone forgot to call. Every moment of waiting can still be infused with grace.

And maybe, just maybe, the slow Church is exactly what our fast hearts need—to breathe, to heal, and to deepen our faith through real Catholic formation.

If you’ve found comfort or companionship in this reflection, consider supporting our mission or exploring our other resources at ko-fi.com/convertingtohope. Your presence helps us continue building a community where waiting is honored, and faith is formed slowly, together.

Peace in Delays: When You’re Still Waiting on Your Annulment

Everyone else is being received into the Church next week. We’re still waiting.

My husband and I have been in OCIA for months. We’ve walked this journey with deep commitment and real anticipation. And now, as others prepare for sacraments, we’ve been asked to wait—not because our faith isn’t strong, but because our annulment paperwork is still in process.

If you're in a similar place, I want to share what we're learning—and how this waiting can still be holy.

You Belong Right Now

Being asked to wait doesn’t mean you’re less ready. It doesn’t mean you’re not faithful enough. It doesn’t mean you’ve missed your moment.

It means the Church is slow. And sometimes, slow is sacred.

The annulment process is one of the hardest parts of entering the Catholic Church as an adult. It’s slow, deeply personal, and often requires you to revisit pain you’ve already worked through. When you finally submit the paperwork, you want it to be done. You want to move forward.

But sometimes God asks us to wait even after we've said yes.

This Delay Is Not Rejection

You are not spiritually sidelined. You are not in limbo. You are not being punished.

This delay is not about your worth. It’s not about shame. It’s not about being seen as less-than. It is simply the Church’s legal process doing what it must.

And even within that process, God is working.

Let the Longing Become Holy

My husband and I have been walking this road together. When we joined OCIA, we knew we’d have to wait for our annulments, but we didn’t realize how it would feel—watching others move forward while we stood still.

The first time someone asked if we were getting confirmed with the group, I smiled and said, “Not yet.” But inside, it stung. Because we’ve shown up for everything. We’ve prayed, studied, committed. We believe this is home. And still, we wait.

There have been moments where I felt angry—not at God, but at the process. It felt like a disconnect between what we knew in our hearts and what the paperwork allowed. It felt like love and obedience weren't enough. And it’s hard to sit with that tension.

But I had to reframe it.

Waiting doesn’t mean denial. It means preparation. It means our wedding vows, our shared faith, our family’s journey—none of that was unseen. It’s being folded into something larger than we can yet name.

The ache hasn’t disappeared. But it’s become sacred. And when the day comes that we kneel side by side and receive Him fully, it won’t be a patch. It will be fulfillment.

Because I know what it costs to get there.

Your Yes Still Matters

You are not in spiritual pause. You are in preparation.

Every day you keep showing up—at Mass, in prayer, in community—you are living out your yes. Every time you wrestle with doubt but choose to stay, you are echoing Mary’s fiat. And God sees it.

You are not forgotten. You are not on the outside. You are walking the long road, and it is holy.

What the Church Actually Teaches About Annulments

It’s easy to feel like the annulment process is some kind of test, or worse—a judgment on your past. But the Catechism of the Catholic Church reminds us that marriage is a sacrament, and as such, it must be entered into freely, fully, faithfully, and fruitfully (CCC 1625–1632: Catechism of the Catholic Church - The Celebration of Matrimony). An annulment isn’t a declaration that your past relationship was meaningless. It’s an acknowledgment that something essential was missing when that marriage began.

The United States Conference of Catholic Bishops (USCCB) affirms that annulments exist to uphold the dignity of the sacrament—not to punish people. Their FAQ on annulments clarifies that a declaration of nullity is not about erasing a past but about understanding it in light of Church teaching.

And while it’s hard to wait, the Code of Canon Law (can. 1066–1067: Code of Canon Law - Title VII: Marriage) outlines the Church’s responsibility to investigate a person’s freedom and readiness for sacramental marriage. This isn’t bureaucracy for its own sake—it’s the Church taking marriage seriously, the way God does.

These teachings don’t erase the ache. But they remind us that the ache itself can be part of a holy journey.

Books to Deepen Your Journey

Our One Great Act of Fidelity: Waiting for Christ in the Eucharist by Fr. Ronald Rolheiser beautifully explores the sacredness of waiting and presence, particularly in relationship to the Eucharist. If you’re struggling with feeling left behind or unsure how to hold the tension of delay, this book offers deep spiritual insight and comfort.

Annulments & the Catholic Church: Straight Answers to Tough Questions by Dr. Edward Peters is a must-read for anyone confused or overwhelmed by the annulment process. It gives honest, compassionate answers and helps you feel less alone in the waiting.

Every Step Has Value

If you're still waiting, know this: the waiting isn't wasted. Every Mass you attend without receiving, every time you kneel and pray with longing in your heart, every time you say yes to the journey even when it aches—that matters. It is not filler. It is formation.

In this season of delay, I’ve come to believe that waiting is not the absence of grace, but one of the ways grace enters. Slower, quieter—but no less real.

There is value in the patience you’re learning, the humility you’re practicing, the tenderness you’re holding for others who don’t know how hard this part is. There is value in resisting the urge to disappear. There is value in staying connected, even when it feels like everyone else has moved ahead.

You are not behind. You are being deepened.

Final Thought: Let This Be Yours

When your annulment is granted and you are received into the Church, it will not be a consolation prize. It will not be a makeup moment. It will be your own sacred beginning.

And maybe—just maybe—it will be even more beautiful because it wasn’t rushed.

You are loved. You are seen. You are on your way.

For more stories of conversion and Catholic life, visit Converting to Hope

The Quiet Conversion: When God Changes You Without a Flash of Light

 

Not all conversions come with thunderclaps. Some don’t even come with words.

For many of us, the call to God wasn’t a dramatic moment. It didn’t shake the ground or split the sky. There was no road to Damascus. There was just a slow turning—a pull, gentle but persistent. And over time, without fully realizing it, we began to live differently. Think differently. Love differently.

That, too, is conversion. And it’s holy.

Grace Works Quietly

The Catechism of the Catholic Church reminds us that “conversion is first of all a work of the grace of God who makes our hearts return to him” (CCC 1432). But grace isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always knock the wind out of us or demand immediate surrender.

Sometimes grace works like water wearing down stone. It enters slowly, seeping into the dry places, softening what once seemed immovable. You don’t notice it right away. You just start craving prayer. Or truth. Or the nearness of God, even if you can’t yet name Him.

Jesus often worked this way. In the Gospel of Luke, we meet Cleopas and his companion walking the road to Emmaus. They are heartbroken, confused, and grieving. Christ walks with them, unrecognized, patiently unfolding Scripture. He doesn’t reveal Himself until they’re ready—until they invite Him in (Luke 24:13–35).

That’s the quiet way. No spectacle. Just presence, and transformation that dawns like morning light.

Signs You’re Already in the Middle of a Quiet Conversion

If you’ve ever wondered, “Is God doing something in me?”—He probably is. Here are some signs of a slow, deep work:

• You feel drawn to revisit faith—even if you left it long ago

• You start asking deeper questions about suffering, meaning, and love

• Your desire for peace outweighs your craving for control

• You notice stirrings of repentance or tenderness that weren’t there before

• Church, Scripture, or the Sacraments start pulling at you, gently but persistently

You’re not imagining it. That’s the Holy Spirit.

Quiet Conversion Still Requires Response

Grace is a gift—but it still invites participation. Conversion, even in its gentlest form, asks us to turn. To allow our hearts to be re-formed. That might mean:

• Confessing things we’ve kept hidden—even from ourselves

• Coming to Mass, even if we’re unsure what we believe yet

• Beginning to pray—awkwardly, imperfectly, honestly

• Asking for help. From a priest. A friend. A saint. Christ Himself.

No one needs to witness it for it to be real. But when you choose to say yes to God, even quietly, the heavens rejoice (Luke 15:7).

When Conversion Feels Incomplete

It’s okay to still wrestle. Conversion is not a finish line. It’s a lifelong process of becoming—of learning to love as God loves.

The Catechism says that interior conversion “urges expression in visible signs” (CCC 1430). That means it will begin to shape how we live, even if our beliefs still feel half-formed. Don’t wait to be perfect before you start. God meets you in the middle of the story.

Let It Be Quiet—and Let It Be Holy

If you’ve never had a dramatic testimony, you’re not a lesser Christian. You are a beloved one. The Church doesn’t need more spectacle. It needs more people who are quietly, daily turning toward the light.

Your story matters—even if it starts with a whisper.

God knows how to speak your language. And if He’s calling you gently, you don’t need to shout back. A quiet yes is still a yes.

“Lord, I am not worthy… but only say the word, and my soul shall be healed.”

How the Saints Handled Doubt (and What It Means for You)

 

Saints weren’t immune to doubt. They just didn’t let it have the last word.

When you think of a saint, it’s easy to imagine unwavering certainty: pristine faith, perfect trust, no questions. But the real stories are far more human—and far more encouraging.

From dark nights to intellectual struggles, many of the saints wrestled with doubt. And not just once. Their paths were winding. Their trust was hard-won. And yet they stayed. They kept praying. They kept walking.

This post isn’t about glorifying struggle for its own sake. It’s about showing how real faith includes real questions—and how doubt can become a teacher, not just a tormentor.

Saint Case Study #1: Mother Teresa

Her doubt: For nearly 50 years, she experienced what she called a "darkness" in her prayer life—a sense that God was absent, even as she served Him with her whole being.

What she did: She kept going. She remained faithful to prayer, service, and the sacraments. She didn't deny the silence—she offered it.

What we can learn:

• Silence doesn’t equal abandonment.

• Your faithfulness matters even when your feelings vanish.

• God's presence is not always emotional—it is often sacrificial.

Try this: On days when God feels distant, light a candle and say aloud, “I will still show up.”

Saint Case Study #2: Saint John Henry Newman

His doubt: As an Anglican priest deeply drawn to Catholicism, Newman faced intense internal conflict. His conversion was slow, full of intellectual and spiritual tension.

What he did: He read deeply, prayed steadily, and allowed the tension to guide him into greater clarity. He didn’t rush his decision.

What we can learn:

• Doubt can be a sign you’re thinking deeply, not falling apart.

• Slow discernment is holy.

• Faith can grow through questions, not in spite of them.

Try this: Journal the questions that won’t leave you alone—not to solve them immediately, but to notice where they’re pointing you.

Saint Case Study #3: Saint Thérèse of Lisieux

Her doubt: Toward the end of her life, Thérèse experienced a crisis of faith. She doubted heaven, God’s love, and the very promises she had built her life on.

What she did: She clung to trust, even when her feelings contradicted it. She described walking in darkness, but holding God’s hand anyway.

What we can learn:

• Trust isn’t the absence of fear. It’s choosing love anyway.

• When your head is full of questions, your heart can still choose to stay.

• God receives even the smallest, most fragile acts of trust.

Try this: When doubts come, whisper, “Jesus, I trust in You”—not because you feel it, but because you choose it.

Saint Case Study #4: Saint Thomas the Apostle

His doubt: He missed the Resurrection appearance and refused to believe without seeing Jesus himself. His nickname—Doubting Thomas—has stuck for centuries.

What he did: He brought his doubt directly to Christ. He didn’t fake belief—he asked for proof. And Jesus met him there.

What we can learn:

• Jesus doesn’t shame honest doubt.

• Bringing your doubt to God is an act of faith.

• You don’t have to pretend.

Try this: In prayer, speak plainly. “I don’t understand. I’m scared. Help my unbelief.” That’s not a failure. That’s how trust grows.

Final Thought: Doubt Isn’t the Enemy. Despair Is.

Doubt can deepen your faith when it drives you to ask, seek, and wrestle with God. The saints show us that fidelity isn’t about perfect certainty. It’s about continuing the conversation.

So if you're walking with questions right now, you're not disqualified. You're walking a path many holy feet have walked before you.

Want a simple tool for navigating seasons of doubt and clarity? Download our Lectio Divina Journal Template in the Ko-Fi store to pray with scripture and track where God is moving—even in the questions.

What Is Spiritual Consolation? A Beginner’s Guide to Discernment

 

Consolation is not just a feeling. It’s how God speaks to the heart.

If you’ve ever felt a sudden stillness during prayer, a surge of clarity in the middle of grief, or an unexpected joy that feels anchored rather than giddy—you’ve likely experienced spiritual consolation.

But for many Catholics, especially those new to intentional discernment, it’s hard to know what those movements of the soul mean. Is that peace from God—or just a mood swing? Does discomfort mean I’m doing something wrong—or something brave?

This beginner’s guide will help you start answering those questions. You don’t need a theology degree to begin noticing how God is moving in your life. You just need attention, honesty, and language.

What Is Spiritual Consolation?

In the tradition of St. Ignatius of Loyola, spiritual consolation refers to an increase in faith, hope, and love—a movement of the soul that draws you closer to God, others, and your true self.

It’s not always a positive emotion (though it can be). It’s more about orientation. Does this movement draw you inward and downward—or outward and upward? Toward fear and isolation—or toward love and trust?

Spiritual consolation often includes:

• A sense of peace or clarity, even in hardship

• A deepening of prayer or desire for the sacraments

• A renewed desire to serve, love, or offer oneself

• An experience of feeling “in tune” with God’s will

How Is It Different from Just Feeling Good?

Not every happy feeling is consolation. And not every uncomfortable feeling is desolation.

Consolation is not the same as emotional relief. Sometimes consolation feels difficult—like the courage to face grief, or the conviction to change course.

Discernment is about direction more than mood. Ask:

• Where is this movement leading me?

• What fruit does it bear in my relationship with God and others?

• Am I being drawn toward freedom—or toward anxiety and confusion?

Learning to Notice the Pattern

Consolation and desolation often come in waves. When you begin to name them, patterns emerge.

Start by paying attention to:

• Your prayer life: When do you feel drawn to God—and when do you feel dry or disconnected?

• Your emotional responses: What moments give rise to deep peace versus disorientation?

• Your daily rhythms: Are there times of day, environments, or relationships that seem to stir you toward or away from God?

You don’t need to analyze everything. But gently noticing is the first step toward discernment.

What to Do When You Feel Consolation

Don’t rush past it. Soak in it. Let it teach you something.

• Write it down. Consolation can be fleeting. Journaling helps you remember how God speaks.

• Stay with it. If you feel drawn to prayer, linger a little longer.

• Anchor it. If a verse, image, or insight accompanied the consolation, return to it during harder days.

What If I’m Not Feeling Anything?

That’s okay. Spiritual dryness is part of the life of faith. Many saints, including Mother Teresa and John of the Cross, experienced long seasons of desolation.

Silence doesn’t mean absence. Sometimes, God is drawing us to deeper trust—not with emotions, but with endurance.

In dry seasons:

• Stay faithful to prayer, even when it feels empty

• Receive the sacraments regularly

• Talk to a spiritual director if possible

Discernment isn’t about chasing consolation—it’s about becoming attuned to God’s movements, even subtle ones.

Final Thought: God Desires to Be Known

Spiritual consolation is not a reward for good behavior. It’s a grace—a glimpse of divine love breaking through ordinary life.

As you begin to notice it, your prayer life deepens. Your choices align more with who you’re becoming in Christ. And your heart learns to recognize the Shepherd’s voice.

Want to go deeper in your prayer life? Try our free prayer helps in the Ko-Fi store, designed to help you listen, reflect, and respond to God’s word—one day at a time.

Faith on the Spectrum: Neurodivergence, Devotion, and the God Who Made Your Brain

 

There is no one right way to be a mind. There is no one right way to be a soul.

And yet—so many neurodivergent people grow up feeling like their way of engaging with God is somehow broken. Too intense, too literal, too distracted, too intellectual. Not quiet enough. Not emotional enough. Not "normal" enough.

But what if the God who formed you in your mother’s womb already knew what your sensory profile would be? What if your prayer life doesn’t have to mimic anyone else’s to be holy?

This is a gentle guide for anyone who has ever wondered whether their brain gets in the way of their devotion—or whether, just maybe, it could become a doorway into deeper faith.

The Myth of the "Correct" Catholic

There’s a cultural script that suggests a “good Catholic” is always reverent in the same ways: quiet in adoration, composed at Mass, fluent in long prayers. But that model often reflects neurotypical preferences—not spiritual superiority.

Neurodivergence includes a wide range of experiences: autism, ADHD, OCD, sensory processing differences, Tourette’s, dyslexia, and more. And yet, Catholic spaces often assume one-size-fits-all participation. When you don’t fit that mold, it’s easy to internalize shame.

But reverence is not about performance. It’s about orientation of the heart. And often, the pressure you feel to perform is not coming from others—it’s coming from the fear that you won’t be accepted as you are. The truth is, most people aren’t judging you. They’re focused on their own prayer, their own presence, their own path to God. And even if a few misunderstand you, God never does.

God doesn’t need you to mask your needs to be welcome in His presence. In fact, your relationship with Him may deepen the more you unmask. Authenticity isn’t a spiritual liability—it’s sacred ground. When you bring your whole self into prayer, without performance or pretense, you’re not being disruptive. You’re being real. And real is where communion begins.

When Traditional Devotions Don’t Fit

You’re not broken if:

• The Rosary feels too long to sustain attention

• Adoration feels physically painful because of sensory discomfort

• You struggle with eye contact, liturgical responses, or kneeling

• You need movement, stim tools, or a fidget item to stay grounded

These aren’t signs of spiritual immaturity. They’re signs that your body and brain are telling the truth. And God doesn’t ask you to lie with your body in order to be close to Him.

Alternative practices that honor your wiring count. That might mean:

• Praying with art, music, or movement

• Short bursts of the Divine Office instead of long prayer marathons

• Writing prayers instead of saying them aloud

• Using timers, visual schedules, or sensory aids to create rhythm

The point is not to force a neurotypical model—but to build a sustainable devotional life that brings you closer, not more ashamed.

God Doesn’t Misfire When He Creates

Your brain—however it processes—is not an error.

Scripture is full of people whose interactions with God did not follow neat social patterns. Prophets who saw visions. Disciples who spoke impulsively. Saints who wrestled with intense focus, compulsive thoughts, or unusual sensory experiences. And through it all, God called them anyway.

Neurodivergence doesn’t disqualify you from sanctity. It might just prepare you for it—because it teaches you how to endure, how to adapt, how to feel and seek and reach in ways the world doesn’t always see.

God sees.

A Church Big Enough for All Brains

The Body of Christ is richer when it includes all its members—not just the ones who sit still, speak fluently, or follow social cues with ease.

If the Church is truly universal, then neurodivergent Catholics shouldn’t have to leave part of themselves at the door. We need more parishes that:

• Offer sensory-friendly Mass options

• Respect assistive devices and stim tools

• Train clergy and catechists on neurodivergent inclusion

• Welcome different forms of reverence without judgment

Your presence in the Church isn’t a problem to fix. It’s a gift to receive.

Final Thought: Your Way Counts

If you’ve ever walked out of a church wondering whether God was disappointed in your distraction—or your overwhelm—or your silence—please hear this:

God is not disappointed in the brain He gave you.

There is room for your way of loving Him. There is room for your intensity, your honesty, your logic, your movement, your curiosity. None of it is a barrier to faith.

You don’t have to earn the right to belong in the Church.

You already do.

Want more inclusive resources or sensory-friendly devotional tools? Visit the Converting to Hope Ko-Fi Shop to explore guides, journals, and creative aids for prayer.

The Eucharist Is Not a Metaphor

The Eucharist is not a symbol. It’s not a poetic stand-in or a beautiful ritual designed to help us feel closer to God. It is God. It is Christ Himself—fully present, fully real, fully given.

This is not a metaphor. This is the mystery that has held the Church together for over two thousand years. And it’s meant for you.

When Jesus Said, “This Is My Body,” He Meant It

If you’ve ever wondered whether the Eucharist is really Jesus—whether we’ve misunderstood Him or made too much of the moment—you’re not alone. It’s one of the hardest teachings Christ ever gave. In John 6, even His own followers said, “This teaching is hard. Who can accept it?” (John 6:60). And many walked away.

But He didn’t stop them. He didn’t soften the words. He simply asked the Twelve, “Do you also want to leave?”

Peter replied, “Lord, to whom shall we go?” And we’ve been echoing that ever since.

When Jesus said, “This is My Body,” He meant it. The same Christ who healed the sick and raised the dead now gives Himself to us in the most ordinary way imaginable: bread. He meets us not in grandeur, but in smallness. In brokenness. In need.

This is how God loves us—not from a distance, but in ways that are shockingly near.

Real Presence for Real People

Belief in the Eucharist doesn’t always begin in theology books. More often, it begins in hospital rooms. In addiction recovery. In long seasons of grief. It begins when we are too tired to fake strength, and too broken to pretend we have everything figured out.

You show up at Mass barely hanging on—and somehow, through the quiet and the ritual and the mystery, you leave fed. Not always fixed. But fed.

Because the Eucharist meets you exactly where you are. Not symbolically. Actually.

You kneel. You open your hands. You are fed by the God who knows your name.

There is something breathtaking about that—that Christ would choose to stay with us not through power or spectacle, but through nourishment. That He would choose the fragility of bread to reveal the fullness of His love.

This kind of presence isn’t about performance. It’s about communion. It’s about Christ coming so close that we can no longer pretend He is far away.

Why It Matters

If the Eucharist were just a metaphor, then God would still feel distant. Like someone we’re trying to remember rather than Someone we can encounter. If it were only symbolic, we’d be left hungry, still searching.

But it isn’t. Christ meant it. And that means heaven touches earth every time you receive Him.

It means you are never alone—not in the grief, not in the mess, not in the questioning. It means there is a Love so real it makes itself edible. A Love that won’t be satisfied staying far away.

That kind of closeness changes things. It reorders your heart. It reminds you who you are and who God is.

And when life unravels—and it will—the Eucharist remains. Steady. Offered. Waiting.

Final Thought: Come to the Table

You don’t have to understand it all. You don’t have to feel worthy or holy or even steady. Just come.

Come if you’re tired. Come if you’re afraid. Come if you’ve been away for too long and don’t know how to find your way back.

Come with your questions. Come with your heartbreak. Come hungry.

The Eucharist is not a metaphor. It is mercy made tangible. It is Christ’s own heart, placed into your hands.

And He is waiting for you.

If you’re looking for ways to reconnect with the sacraments or re-learn how to pray, there’s a gentle guide for returning Catholics in the Ko-fi shop. No pressure. Just a starting point.

You’re not too far gone. You're not too late. You are still welcome at the table.

He is still offering Himself. And He always will.

What Is the Church Actually For? (A Love Letter to the Sacraments)

 

If you've ever found yourself wondering what the Catholic Church is actually for—what it's supposed to do, what it means to belong—you're not alone. Many of us have wrestled with that question, especially if we've been hurt by the Church or frustrated by its human failures.

But what if the heart of the Church isn’t found in bureaucracy or headlines or even personalities?

What if it’s found in something quieter and more beautiful—something that’s been quietly nourishing souls for centuries?

This is a love letter to the sacraments. And maybe, in reading it, you’ll find your way back to the One who never stopped waiting for you.

The Church Is a Hospital, Not a Courtroom

We live in a world that loves measuring worth. Did you earn it? Do you deserve it? Are you good enough?

The Church answers differently. It says: you're sick, and so are we. Come in anyway. Here is healing. Here is grace.

The sacraments aren’t rewards for the perfect. They’re lifelines for the weary, the wounded, the trying. They meet us exactly where we are—no prerequisites, no spotless record required.

If you’ve limped into Mass feeling broken, if you’ve knelt in a confessional with a heart full of shame, if you’ve ever dared to hope that maybe God still wants you—then you already understand the sacraments better than most theology textbooks ever will.

The Church Gives Us the Sacraments Because God Is Generous

In Baptism, God names us His. In the Eucharist, He feeds us with His very life. In Reconciliation, He meets us in our shame and speaks peace instead of condemnation.

These aren’t rituals for ritual’s sake. They are how God makes His love tangible.

We are physical beings. We need physical grace. And so God gives us sacraments: water, oil, bread, words, presence. We don’t have to climb to heaven—He comes down to us.

And He keeps coming. Not just once, but every week. Every day. Every time we say yes. The sacraments are proof that God doesn’t just love us in theory—He loves us in the dirt and the details.

The Church Keeps Us from Doing Faith Alone

Modern spirituality often says, “Just find your own path.” And while that might sound freeing, it can also be lonely.

The Church gives us something more: a community of believers, a shared rhythm of life, and a promise that we don’t have to carry our faith alone.

When we receive the sacraments, we’re never doing it in a vacuum. We are surrounded—by saints, by strangers, by the body of Christ across time and space. We kneel next to people who are just as messy and searching as we are. And somehow, in the middle of that sacred chaos, grace shows up.

There’s comfort in knowing you’re not the only one fumbling toward holiness. The Church reminds us that faith isn’t meant to be solo. It’s a family meal—even if some of the relatives are difficult.

The Church Is Where Heaven Touches Earth

It’s easy to forget, in the mess of Church politics or scandals, that this same Church still holds the tabernacle. Still anoints the sick. Still baptizes babies. Still offers Christ to us, again and again.

The sacraments are not magic tricks. They’re not earned. But they are real.

And when you kneel in the quiet, when you taste the Host, when you hear “I absolve you,” you are standing on holy ground.

Sometimes we forget that God still shows up in the ordinary. That He still chooses to pour grace into chipped chalices, whispered prayers, and hands that tremble as they break the bread. But He does. And He will. Because love always finds a way.

The Heart of the Church Is Jesus

Not the programs. Not the politics. Not even the pastors.

At its best—and sometimes even in its brokenness—the Church exists to bring us to Jesus. Not the idea of Him, but the real Him: present, alive, poured out for love of you.

And He still shows up. In bread. In wine. In water and oil and whispered absolution. He still comes to find us.

The Church is where He’s promised to be.

And when we understand that, we stop asking, “What is the Church for?”

We start saying, “Thank God it’s here.”

Because in the sacraments, we’re not just reminded of God’s love—we receive it. Again. And again. And again.

And that, dear reader, is what the Church is for.

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Looking for More?

If this reflection spoke to your heart, you might enjoy the other free and faith-filled resources we’re building at Converting to Hope. Your support helps keep this work alive—and lets us continue creating tools rooted in love, truth, and grace.

New Printable: “Examination of Conscience: The Heart of the Matter” Free to download.

New Printable: “Examination of Conscience: The Heart of the Matter”
Free to download. Yours as a gift. Donations welcome, never expected.

For so many Catholics—especially those returning to the Church or just beginning their journey—examination of conscience can feel intimidating. The Ten Commandments are often treated like a strict behavioral checklist, and the experience becomes more about fear of failure than formation of the heart.

But that was never the point.

Jesus never stopped at the surface of our actions—He looked to the heart. He showed us that real holiness begins with love, mercy, and a desire to live in right relationship with God and one another.

That’s why I created this printable.

“Examination of Conscience: The Heart of the Matter” is a pastoral guide that invites you to reflect honestly, without fear or scrupulosity. It walks you through each of the Ten Commandments, not as rigid rules, but as invitations to deeper freedom, peace, and integrity. Each section includes questions not just about behavior, but about the motivations and movements of your heart.

If you’re preparing for confession, entering the Church, guiding a child, or simply seeking to grow—this resource is for you.

It’s completely free to download.

If it’s helpful to you and you’re in a position to give, you’re welcome to leave a donation through Ko-Fi. That support helps me continue offering free, faith-rooted tools to others. But truly—please don’t give unless you can. This is a gift, not a transaction.

You can download it here:
👉 Examination of Conscience: The Heart of the Matter – Free Download

With you on the journey,

Joanna 

The Face of God Series: The Face of God in Isaiah Chapter 8

Isaiah 8 is a striking chapter—one that’s full of warning, symbolism, and the tension between fear and trust. It continues the thread of God's deep involvement with His people, even when they are in rebellion or danger. But behind the ominous signs and prophetic declarations is a God who still longs to be trusted, still reaches out, and still marks Himself as a sanctuary for those who choose Him. As always, we are looking not just at the history, but at the heart. What does this chapter show us about who God is—and what does it mean for our spiritual lives?

God as the One Who Speaks Clearly (Isaiah 8:1–4)

"Take a large tablet and write on it with an ordinary stylus: 'belonging to Maher-shalal-hash-baz.'" (v.1)

God is not vague or secretive in His dealings with His people. He tells Isaiah to write down the prophecy publicly and plainly—this is not a God who delights in mystery for mystery’s sake. He warns because He loves. He speaks clearly so that no one can say they weren’t given the chance to understand. Even the name of the child—Maher-shalal-hash-baz, which means "quick to plunder, swift to spoil"—is part of the message.

In your own life, reflect on this: God often speaks more clearly than we want to admit. His nudges, His Word, His Spirit, and even circumstances often align to direct us. The question is—are we listening?

God as the Water We Reject (Isaiah 8:5–8)

"This people has rejected the gently flowing waters of Shiloah... therefore the Lord is bringing up against them the mighty floodwaters of the Euphrates." (v.6–7)

This passage is heart-wrenching. The gentle waters of Shiloah represent God's provision—quiet, consistent, sustaining. But the people rejected them. They looked for strength in alliances and worldly power. So God allows them to face the consequences of their own choices: the Assyrian empire, symbolized as a raging flood.

What does this tell us about God? He is the gently flowing water—not flashy, not overpowering, but faithful. And yet, when we reject His way, He allows the consequences to come, not out of cruelty, but because He honors our freedom. Still, even in judgment, He remains sovereign. "He will sweep on into Judah... but will only reach up to the neck" (v.8). God sets the boundaries of even our worst moments.

There is deep grace here. The flood is allowed, but not total. God limits the power of destruction. Even when we walk outside His will, He does not abandon us entirely. He leaves a remnant. He holds the line.

This invites us to trust God's gentleness before we are overwhelmed by life's floods—and to remember that even when the water rises, He never lets it drown us completely.

God as the Limit-Setter and Protector (Isaiah 8:9–10)

"Devise a plan—it shall be thwarted; make a resolve—it shall not be carried out, for 'With us is God!'"

This is the first echo of the name Emmanuel, "God with us," first given in Isaiah 7. God declares that no plan of the nations will stand, because He is with His people—even when they are faltering. That doesn’t mean life will be easy, but it does mean that evil will never have the final word.

This promise matters profoundly in the life of faith. When everything feels like it’s falling apart, when the news is dark and the future uncertain, we remember: Devise your plan, world. It shall be thwarted. Not because of our strength, but because of His presence. He is with us. That has always been enough.

When you feel threatened or small, return to this declaration: God with us. Not watching from afar. Not waiting for you to earn His aid. With you. Always.

God as the One Worth Fearing (Isaiah 8:11–13)

"Do not call conspiracy all this people calls conspiracy. Do not fear what they fear, nor hold it in dread. But the LORD of hosts, Him you shall regard as holy; let Him be your fear, and Him your dread."

This is a powerful call to spiritual sanity. In a time of national panic and misinformation, God tells Isaiah: don’t join the hysteria. Don’t get swept up in fear-based thinking. Don’t let the crowd determine your mindset.

Instead, Isaiah is told to anchor his fear—to give it to God. This is not fear in the sense of terror, but in the biblical sense of awe-filled reverence. Fear shapes behavior. Fear drives decision-making. And if you fear the wrong things, your entire life can be steered off course.

God says: Let Me be the One who holds your awe. Let Me be the One you filter all things through. Because when God is the thing we fear losing most, we become bold in the face of everything else.

This is how we regain clarity in chaotic times: by shifting our fear back to its rightful place. Not toward what’s loudest, but toward what’s holy.

God as a Sanctuary and a Stone (Isaiah 8:14–15)

"He shall be a sanctuary, but also a stone of stumbling..."

This may be one of the most sobering truths in all of Scripture: the same God who is a refuge for some becomes a stumbling block for others. Why? Because some trust Him, and others resist Him. God’s presence doesn’t change—but our response to Him does.

To those who love Him, He is safety. To those who resist Him, even mercy feels like judgment. This is not because God is harsh, but because His holiness reveals the truth. And truth can feel like an obstacle when we’re not ready to receive it.

This image carries forward into the New Testament, where Jesus is called the cornerstone rejected by the builders (1 Peter 2:6–8). Christ becomes both the foundation of salvation and the stone over which many trip. He is everything—but He will not be reshaped to fit our expectations. We are the ones who must conform to Him.

The question is never, Is God for me or against me? The question is, Will I let Him be my sanctuary? Or will I keep tripping over the truth He offers?

God as the One Who Hides (Isaiah 8:16–17)

"I will wait for the LORD, who is hiding His face from the house of Jacob, and I will trust in Him."

This is quiet but profound. Isaiah acknowledges that God is hiding His face. There is no denial, no spin—just honesty. But what follows is even more beautiful: I will wait. I will trust.

God sometimes hides not to punish, but to form. The silence of God often matures us more than His nearness. When we no longer feel His presence, but still choose to stay faithful—that is when trust becomes real.

Isaiah doesn’t demand a timeline. He doesn’t lash out in frustration. He names the silence and still stays. There is deep holiness in that kind of spiritual perseverance.

If you’re walking through a season of silence, hold this moment close. God may be hiding—but He is not gone. And those who wait for Him will not be put to shame.

God as the Light in the Darkness (Isaiah 8:19–22)

"And when they say to you, 'Inquire of ghosts and soothsayers who chirp and mutter,' should not a people inquire of their God? Should they inquire of the dead on behalf of the living? Instruction and testimony! Surely those who speak like this are in darkness. They will pass through the land dejected and hungry; and when they are hungry, they will become enraged, and, looking upward, will curse their king and their God. Then they will look to the earth and see only distress and darkness, oppressive gloom, murky, and without light." (Isaiah 8:19–22)

The chapter ends with people turning to darkness—consulting the dead, chasing shadows, seeking answers in anything but God. And what does it bring? Anguish. Gloom. Despair.

These verses are more than a warning; they are a lament. The people have turned away from the living God and gone instead to false voices—voices that can only offer confusion, fear, and distortion. When we look anywhere but to God for truth, we don’t find clarity—we find chaos.

And yet, this is not where the story ends. Isaiah 8 leads directly into Isaiah 9’s beautiful declaration: "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light." This is the rhythm of redemption. God lets us see the weight of our choices, the true end of our self-dependence—not to shame us, but to create longing. He is the light we were made for. And even when we are the ones who have walked away, He prepares to shine again.

If you find yourself overwhelmed, or tempted to seek answers in fear-based spaces—through doomscrolling, conspiracies, spiritual shortcuts—pause here. Ask yourself: What kind of light am I seeking? And have I asked the living God to be the One who leads me through this?

Because the light is coming. And it is not an idea. It is a Person.

When you look at the state of the world—or your own heart—and feel the weight of that darkness, remember: it is not the end of the story. The dawn is coming. And God Himself will be the Light.

Final Reflection: The Face of God in Isaiah 8

Isaiah 8 reveals a God who speaks plainly, who warns out of love, who offers Himself as a sanctuary in a world full of fear. He is both the gentle stream and the mighty protector. He honors our choices, but never removes His invitation. For those who trust Him, He is a hiding place. For those who resist Him, even His mercy can feel like a stumbling stone. But always, always, He is Emmanuel—God with us.

If you feel surrounded by fear, or unsure of what to believe, let Isaiah 8 center you. Fear God, not the noise. Trust the One who sets the limits. Wait, even when He hides. And prepare—because the light is coming.

What does this chapter reveal to you about the character of God? What invitation do you hear in His voice today?

You can explore the full journey of The Face of God in Isaiah as it unfolds—each chapter drawing us closer to the heart of the Father. To support the project, visit the Ko-Fi store or consider tipping if this reflection spoke to you.

For deeper study, I highly recommend the Ignatius Press Catholic Study Bible—a tool that has changed the way I read Scripture.

When the series is complete, you'll be able to purchase the full edition in our Ko-Fi shop.