That moment on the bench didn’t happen in isolation.
It did not begin with silence by the water.
It began long before that, in a season when my life looked functional on the outside, yet quietly heavy on the inside.
I had signed up for my very first Christian women’s retreat with a small group of women I knew — a reflective, wisdom-filled group often referred to as the Wise Women. They were kind, thoughtful, and deeply sincere in their walks. I felt safe going with them, even though the retreat itself was filled with hundreds of women I did not know.
It was new territory for me.
New environment.
New conversations.
New rhythms of worship, testimonies, and openness that I was not yet used to.
And if I am honest, I spent much of that time listening more than speaking.
Not because I didn’t care.
Not because I wasn’t seeking.
But because openly sharing my own story did not come naturally to me at that point in my walk. I was still carrying a quiet layer of shame I hadn’t yet learned how to bring into the light, and so I observed, reflected, and stayed present in quieter ways.
Outwardly, I participated.
Inwardly, I was still processing.
On top of that, this retreat marked the first time I had been separated from my baby since giving birth. That alone carried a weight I hadn’t fully anticipated. Part of me longed for the space to breathe, to think, to heal. Another part of me felt stretched emotionally in ways I didn’t quite know how to articulate.
Yet I still went.
Not out of confidence, but out of hope.
Hope that stepping outside of my comfort zone might help in ways I could not yet name.
So I filled my schedule.
Sessions.
Group times.
Conversations.
Activities.
Anything that felt structured.
Anything that felt productive.
Anything that felt like forward movement.
Looking back, I can see that busyness felt safer than stillness.
We were in a deeply tender season of healing after broken trust in my marriage, and my heart was carrying more than I knew how to process. I believed God was real. I believed He was present. I even experienced moments of comfort that felt undeniably genuine.
But even in those moments, I had a quiet habit I did not yet recognize.
I would feel comfort…
and then immediately shift into trying to figure everything out.
How to heal.
How to move forward.
How to fix what felt broken inside of me.
Instead of walking with God through the process, I would gently return to solving the process myself.
At the time, I did not have language for this.
I did not think of it as “loops” or patterns.
I simply thought I was being responsible, reflective, and intentional.
In reality, I was operating from what I knew.
And what I knew felt safe.
It was almost like gathering the first few ingredients of a recipe — receiving comfort, insight, or a small sense of peace — and then stepping in to finish the rest on my own, convinced that if I just thought hard enough or tried carefully enough, I could make the outcome come together the right way.
I did not realize that I was still relying on familiar internal habits, even while sincerely seeking God.
The retreat environment, though gentle and supportive, quietly revealed this about me.
Women shared testimonies.
They spoke openly about their journeys, their struggles, their healing.
There was a depth of vulnerability in the room that I respected deeply, even if I was not yet ready to mirror it myself.
So I listened.
I reflected.
I nodded.
I absorbed.
And I stayed quietly present within my small circle, surrounded by wisdom and healing conversations, while still feeling unsure of where I fully fit within it all.
Not excluded.
Not disconnected.
Just… out of my comfort zone in a way that was stretching something deeper.
Even the simple act of being there felt like a leap of faith.
I had come believing it would help.
I just didn’t know how.
Underneath the structure of the retreat and the calm conversations, my internal world was still moving in familiar patterns — receiving moments of encouragement, then returning inward to analyze, process, and quietly try to manage the weight of everything I was carrying.
Because when you don’t yet know how to walk relationally with God through your pain, it is natural to return to what feels familiar.
And familiar often feels safe.
Even if those familiar ways quietly keep you circling the same internal ground.
At the time, I did not recognize this as a pattern.
I only knew that I was tired, sincere, hopeful, and still trying to hold myself together in ways that felt responsible and controlled.
So I stayed engaged.
I showed up.
I listened more than I spoke.
And I continued moving through the retreat with a full schedule and a full mind, gently avoiding the deeper stillness I did not yet realize I needed.
Because stillness leaves space for honesty.
And honesty, in tender seasons, can feel vulnerable in ways busyness does not.
Which is how, somewhere between the structure of the retreat and the quiet weight I had been carrying for so long, I finally found myself with a moment that was no longer filled.
No session.
No conversation.
No activity.
Just a bench.
A view of the water.
And a stillness I could no longer schedule my way around.
Companion Thought:
Sometimes the greatest step forward is learning to sit still with God.
Let's discover the weather in Chronicle #3