When God Feels Quiet (And You’re Checking Your Spiritual Wi-Fi)

There are seasons when God feels close enough to hear your thoughts before you finish them. And then there are seasons when you’re praying like you’re leaving a voicemail.

You know the kind. You pray. You wait. You pray again, just in case the first one didn’t go through. You start wondering if heaven has you on Do Not Disturb.

If you’ve ever thought, “I love God… but why does this feel like a one-sided conversation right now?”—you’re not broken. You’re human. And you’re in very good company.

The Quiet Seasons No One Warns You About

We don’t talk enough about the quiet seasons of faith.

The ones that don’t come with dramatic crises or big sins or obvious turning points. Just… silence. Life keeps moving. Responsibilities pile up. You’re still showing up, still believing, still doing “the right things”—but emotionally and spiritually, it feels like trying to hug someone through a wall.

And if we’re honest, the silence can mess with us more than outright hardship.

At least pain has sound.

Silence makes us start narrating our own explanations:

• Maybe I did something wrong.

• Maybe my faith isn’t strong enough.

• Maybe God talks to everyone else, just not me.

Cue the spiritual spiral.

A Gentle Truth: Silence Is Not Absence

One of the hardest lessons faith teaches us is this: God’s quiet does not mean God has left.

Scripture is full of people who loved God deeply—and still experienced long stretches of waiting.

David cried out, “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?” Job sat in ashes with no answers. Even Jesus experienced the ache of silence on the cross.

Faith isn’t proven by constant reassurance. It’s often formed in the spaces where reassurance is missing.

That doesn’t mean you’re doing faith wrong. It means you’re doing faith honestly.

Why God Might Feel Quiet (Without the Guilt Trip)

Let’s clear something up right now: God’s quiet is not punishment.

Sometimes the quiet seasons come because:

• You’re growing roots instead of leaves.

• God is shifting your dependence from feelings to trust.

• Life is loud, and your soul is tired.

• You’re being invited into a deeper, less performative faith.

And sometimes? There’s no tidy explanation at all.

Faith doesn’t always come with footnotes.

What To Do When Faith Feels Dry (Practical, Gentle, No Gold Stars Required)

1. Stop Forcing Big Spiritual Moments. This is not the season for marathon prayer sessions fueled by guilt and coffee. Small, honest prayers count.“God, I’m here.”“God, I’m tired.”“God, please meet me—even if I can’t feel it.”

Those prayers don’t impress anyone.They don’t need to. They’re real.

2. Let Scripture Sit With You Instead of Teaching You. You don’t have to “get something” out of every verse. Sometimes Scripture isn’t a lesson—it’s a companion.

Read slowly. Re-read the same passage for weeks if needed. Let it breathe next to you.

3. Borrow Faith When Yours Feels Thin. This is where community matters. Books, podcasts, trusted voices, ancient prayers. When your faith feels like a flickering candle, let others help shield the flame.

You don’t lose points for needing help.

4. Remember: Feelings Are Weather, Not Climate. Feelings change. Faith remains. Just because today feels cloudy doesn’t mean the sun stopped existing. As a matter of fact, it is quite the opposite. An overcast day lets you appreciate the days of sunshine (what God told me just today).

The Love That Holds You Even Here

Here’s the quiet, stubborn hope I come back to again and again: God’s love is not measured by how emotionally connected we feel on any given day.

It’s measured by His character.

And His character is steady. Unpanicked. Faithful when we’re not. Present even when we can’t sense Him.

You are not failing faith because it feels hard right now. You’re practicing it.

A Soft Invitation (No Pressure, Just Love)

If you’re in a quiet season, you don’t need to rush out of it. You don’t need to manufacture joy or pretend certainty.

Just stay.

Stay curious. Stay honest. Stay open—even a crack.

Faith isn’t always a roaring fire. Sometimes it’s an ember you cup carefully in your hands, trusting it still burns.

And it does.

XO, Marie