Finding My Way Back to Faith After Silence

The Year Everything Fell Apart

There was a year that broke me.

Not in a dramatic way. Not with a single event that shattered everything at once. But it broke me all the same.

It was 2020. I had just gotten married. That should’ve been joyful. But everything else collapsed around it. I had unresolved conflict with my family. I walked away from church—the only place I ever knew how to feel safe. I found out I failed subjects from the previous semester. And one afternoon, in the middle of trying to survive all of that, I was diagnosed with depression.

That word—depression—landed with a strange kind of relief. It made sense. But it also added weight. Suddenly, I wasn’t just “tired” or “sad.” I was clinically broken. And even though my wife stood by me and tried to understand, I couldn’t explain what it felt like to lose the one thing I thought I’d never lose.

I lost my voice of faith.

A Faith That Was Always Doing

I don’t mean the voice I used when I sang in church, or the one that wrote devotionals or worship guides. I mean the voice inside me that always whispered back to God. The one that used to be so familiar it felt like breathing.

Growing up, I was always at church. Maybe ten Sundays missed in my entire life before 2020. My dad is a pastor. Faith was the rhythm of our home. Sundays, Bible studies, worship team practices, family devotions—they were constants.

But that year, everything turned unfamiliar.

The pandemic didn’t help. With churches closed and everyone keeping distance, I had no place to process everything. No people to worship with. No spiritual rituals to anchor me. And when I tried to pray, it was like talking to a wall. No response. No clarity. Just silence.

I thought my faith had faded slowly. But the truth is, it felt like a break. A snap. One day I could still talk to God. The next, I couldn’t hear Him at all.

And eventually, I stopped even trying.

When Prayer Became a Monologue

I remember sitting alone in our apartment. I would close my eyes and try to pray. But what came out wasn’t prayer—it was noise. Complaints. Loops of self-pity and fear.

Prayer felt like a monologue. Like I was talking to a ceiling. Eventually, I gave up. If God wasn’t answering, why keep knocking?

For months, my faith life was nothing. I still knew what I believed—technically. But the practice of it—the lifeline of prayer, the joy of worship, the calm of community—was gone.

But God wasn’t.

The Gentle Return

When my wife and I started going to a new church here in Canada—a Christian Reformed church—I didn’t expect anything. I thought we were just showing up.

But during one of the early services, something small happened.

Not a lightning bolt. Not an emotional high. Just a soft warmth. A welcome. The feeling that I was seen. Not by the people, necessarily, but by Someone larger.

And then I started noticing things.

I passed the board exam when I didn’t think I could. Friends kept showing up for me. My wife—my constant—stood beside me through all of it. Somehow, despite my silence, I was surrounded by people who carried me when I couldn’t stand.

It hit me one evening: these people, these gifts—they were from God.

He had been there the whole time.

When Church Becomes a Mirror

Leaving the church was painful. Not because I stopped believing, but because it shattered the image of who I thought I was supposed to be.

As a pastor’s son, there were expectations. My parents would remind me that everything we did reflected on the church, on God.

I internalized that. I made sure I looked the part. Led the part. Lived the part.

But when faith becomes a social contract—when you perform it for others—it loses its center.

I didn’t realize how much of my belief was tied to doing. When I stopped doing, I thought I had no faith left.

But God wasn’t asking me to perform.

He was waiting for me to be still.

Starting from Nothing

I was asked if there was a verse or song that carried me through that season.

There wasn’t.

I forgot the things that used to move me. It felt like starting from nothing.

And maybe that was necessary.

I wasn’t just picking up where I left off. I was beginning again. Re-learning who God is, not from the pulpit, not from the praise team, but from silence.

When I moved to Canada, I lost titles. I lost the identity I had worked so hard to build. I was no longer a doctor. No longer a worship leader. I was just… me.

And that turned out to be enough.

The Beauty of Questioning

I used to avoid hard questions.

Not because I was afraid of the truth, but because I thought questioning meant doubting—and doubting meant disobedience.

But when everything fell apart, I had nothing but questions.

Why does faith disappear so fast when life gets hard?

Why did God feel silent when I needed Him most?

Why did it feel like I was only loved when I was useful?

These questions didn’t end my faith. They began it.

For the first time, I was wrestling. Not to win, but to understand. Not to be right, but to be real.

The Voice in the Quiet

Now, God speaks to me in smaller ways.

In the warmth of my church community.

In my wife’s hand on mine when I’m anxious.

In the sound of silence when the internet is down and I have nothing but stillness.

I used to think faith had to be loud.

Now I know the voice of God doesn’t compete with noise.

It waits for it to stop.

Reclaiming a New Voice

This new faith I have—it’s not polished. Not always confident.

But it’s mine.

And it’s full of grace.

It’s a voice of humility. A voice that doesn’t need to be seen. A voice that doesn’t shout. A voice that is learning to pray again, learning to trust again, learning to serve again.

Not because it has to. But because it wants to.

Living as Someone Who Remembers

I’ve started to write again.

I’ve told our pastor my story.

I’ve reached out to our old missionary.

Not because I want to be a leader again.

But because I want to be someone who remembers.

Remembers that God was patient when I wasn’t.

That He stayed when I ran.

That He welcomed me even when I didn’t know how to come back.

I may never be the kind of believer I once was.

But that version of me needed to prove something.

This one is learning to receive.

To sing again, even in whispers.

To live quietly, fully, as someone who believes.