Spiraling... or Stirring?

I'm writing this one from the middle. Not from the other side. Not with a neat bow tied around the lesson. Not with a list of five ways to know the difference. Just from the middle.

Because lately I've been convinced I was spiraling. Not a little concerned. Not slightly overwhelmed. Spiraling. At least that's what I called it.

My thoughts felt louder than usual. Certain ideas kept returning no matter how many times I tried to set them aside. Questions lingered longer than I wanted them to. Possibilities kept showing up in conversations, prayers, and quiet moments when I was trying to focus on something else.

And honestly? It annoyed me. I wanted clarity. I wanted certainty. I wanted to know exactly what God was doing, exactly what I was supposed to do, and exactly how everything was going to work out.

Instead, I got questions. Lots of them. The kind that sit with you while you're driving. The kind that show up while you're folding laundry. The kind that sneak into your prayer life when you were trying to talk about something entirely different.

At first, I assumed that meant something was wrong. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe I was taking on too much. Maybe I needed to stop dreaming and just focus on what was right in front of me. Maybe I needed to get out of my own head.

So that's the story I told myself. "I'm spiraling." It felt like the most reasonable explanation.

Then one day, while talking with a trusted friend, I shared the thoughts, the questions, the restlessness, the uncertainty. I explained why I thought I was spiraling. And after listening, she paused and said something I wasn't expecting.

"What if you're not spiraling?"

I was stunned really. Clearly I was spiraling. Hadn't I just spent the last several minutes proving it? Then she continued.

"What if God is stirring something in you?"

I wish I could tell you I immediately had some profound spiritual revelation. I didn't. Not because I didn't trust her. I do very much. But because stirring sounded so much more meaningful than what I was experiencing. Stirring sounded intentional. Purposeful. Sacred. What I was experiencing felt messy. Messy thoughts. Messy questions. Messy uncertainty.

But her words followed me home. And they stayed. The next day they were still there. And the day after that. And somewhere along the way I began asking a different question.

Not, "Am I spiraling?" But, "What if I've misnamed what's happening?"

If I'm being fair, not all of my thoughts have been fear-driven. Some have been hopeful. Some have been curious. Some have felt strangely persistent in a way I can't quite explain.

There are things I've tried to dismiss that keep finding their way back, conversations that seem to connect to one another, opportunities that continue appearing, burdens I can't seem to shake, and dreams that feel too big and too inconvenient to be entirely my own idea. (This last one really hits home right now.)

And I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps I've been placing all forms of restlessness into the same category. Maybe because that's easier. Maybe because if it's anxiety, I know what to do with it. Pray. Breathe. Slow down.

But if it's stirring? That's different.

Because stirring asks something of you. It requires attention. It invites curiosity. It may eventually require action. And that feels far more vulnerable than simply labeling everything as overthinking.

The truth is, I've spent most of my adult life trying to be responsible. Practical. Grounded. The person who thinks things through. The person who counts the cost. The person who doesn't get carried away. The person everyone looks up to.

And those are good qualities. Until they become barriers. Until practicality keeps you from possibility. Until caution keeps you from calling. Until wisdom becomes an excuse for never taking a step of faith.

I don't know exactly what God is doing in this season. I could guess but I really don't. I wish I did. I wish I could tell you this post ends with a dramatic realization where all the puzzle pieces suddenly click into place. But that's not where I am.

What I can tell you is that I'm paying closer attention.

I'm noticing what keeps returning. I'm noticing which thoughts pull me toward fear and which ones pull me toward faith. I'm noticing which questions leave me feeling trapped and which ones leave me feeling expectant. Because maybe that's part of discernment. Not instantly knowing. But learning to notice. Learning to listen. Learning to sit with uncertainty long enough for God's voice to become clearer than our assumptions.

I think about Samuel hearing God call his name and not recognizing the voice at first. I think about Moses arguing with God from a burning bush. I think about Esther stepping into a purpose she couldn't fully see. Again and again, Scripture reminds us that people rarely understood the full picture while they were living it. Why do I expect to?

Maybe faith isn't always certainty. Maybe sometimes faith looks like paying attention. Maybe it looks like holding your plans with open hands. Maybe it looks like admitting that what you've labeled as spiraling could, in fact, be stirring. Or maybe not.

I'm still figuring that out.

But I know this: God doesn't always arrive with a detailed blueprint. Sometimes He arrives as a nudge. A burden. A question. A holy restlessness. A gentle stirring that refuses to disappear. And perhaps the goal isn't to immediately distinguish every stirring from every spiral. Perhaps the goal is simply to stay close enough to God that when He moves, we recognize His presence.

So for now, I'm praying. I'm listening. I'm paying attention. And I'm leaving room for the possibility that what I thought was spiraling might actually be God preparing my heart for something I can't yet see.

If you're in a season like that too, maybe we can sit in the uncertainty together. Not needing all the answers. Just trusting that God is faithful enough to guide us one step at a time.

"And Samuel said, 'Speak, for your servant hears.'" — 1 Samuel 3:10 (ESV)

I've always loved Samuel's story, but lately I've been reading it differently.

Samuel didn't immediately recognize God's voice. He heard something. He sensed something. He knew enough to pay attention. But he didn't know what it was. Or rather, he thought he knew what it was. Three times he mistook God's voice for someone else's.

I wonder how often I do the same. How often do I label something as anxiety when God may be inviting me to pay attention? How often do I dismiss a burden, a question, or a persistent thought because it feels inconvenient or unclear?

Samuel's story reminds me that discernment is learned. Recognizing God's voice is learned. And perhaps part of spiritual maturity is not having all the answers, but remaining open enough to say: "Speak, Lord. I'm listening."

A Prayer for the Middle

Lord, I confess that I often rush to explain what I'm feeling before I've taken time to sit with You in it. Sometimes I label things too quickly. Sometimes I assume I know what's happening. Sometimes I mistake fear for wisdom, anxiety for certainty, or Your voice for my own thoughts.

Like Samuel, help me learn to recognize You. Give me patience when clarity doesn't come immediately. Give me wisdom when I need discernment. Give me courage when You ask me to take a step I wasn't planning to take. Teach me to pay attention to the places where You may be stirring, even when I don't fully understand why.

And when I can't yet tell the difference between spiraling and stirring, remind me that You are patient enough to keep speaking.

Speak, Lord. Your servant is listening. Amen.