Why do I feel like I’m losing my faith in God?
She kept going back to look at his photos. Not once a day—more than that. She would scroll through years of images taken in places she had never been, and something in her chest would crack open. She did not know this person. They had never been in the same room. He was not cooperating. Her friends had sent the memo: this is not worth your time. And yet every time she tried to create distance, the signs got stronger.
We can become convinced that love is supposed to feel like recognition—like finding the person who finally makes sense. And then sometimes it arrives as the opposite. It feels like standing in front of a closed door we cannot stop knocking on, even as we tell ourselves to walk away. The logic says one thing. Something beneath the heart says another.
She asked herself plainly: what am I doing? She had dropped the email subscriptions, the YouTube channel, the business page. She had pulled back every thread she could name. And still he appeared, front and centre, in her feed. In her dreams, which she rarely remembered anymore. She looked at his face in those photos and felt his love radiating back somehow. She knew it made no sense. But the feeling would not let her go.
Maybe faith is not the belief that something will work out. Maybe it is the refusal to stop feeling what we feel, even when the feeling has nowhere left to land. She had been fine alone. She had closed that chapter. And then this stranger who was not a stranger appeared, and now she could not tell the difference between fate and delusion. What if they are the same thing? What if the door stays closed and we keep knocking anyway—not because we are faithful, but because we have run out of ways to pretend we are not?
There is a special kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying a feeling no one else can see. The composite chart promises a beautiful future. The day-to-day promises a world of hurt. She stands in the gap between those two realities and wonders which one is true.
We are told that faith should feel like certainty. But sometimes it feels like the opposite—holding onto something we cannot prove, cannot explain, and cannot make anyone else understand. The feeling is always real. The question is what to do when the thing we believe in refuses to show up in a form we can hold.
Some questions do not get answered by logic. They get answered by time, or they do not get answered at all. And we are left holding the feeling, walking the second track—the one that looks like insanity from the outside but feels, on the inside, like the only honest place left to stand.
What are we holding onto that makes no sense to anyone but us? What would it mean to let it go—and what would it mean if we could not?