When Your Higher Power Feels Silent

By: Tasha Truchel

1. Naming the Feeling

The past few weeks have been up and down, and I feel moments of push and pull within my own self and emotions. It’s easier for us to be positive and optimistic when things are going well or when we’re internally sound.

But when the voices become too loud and we’re moving too quickly — not focused on the now, rather what was or what will come — there’s an incredible sense of discomfort that follows. That kind of restlessness can make anyone, with or without mental health struggles, uneasy.

I went to church this past Sunday, and the priest asked, “Are you more optimistic or pessimistic?” It had me thinking. I feel like I’m an optimistic person… but the true test is how your mind and reactions respond when things aren’t going your way. Are you optimistic and trusting that God or your higher power has your best interest at heart — or are you doubting that this season will ever change?

I’ve come to accept that I am more optimistic when life is flowing smoothly. It’s easier to feel faithful when things are going “right.” But when challenges come, I can easily shift toward pessimism — and that, to me, is a sign that I’m not accepting life on life’s terms. I’m not at peace within myself. Restless, irritable, and discontent — I’m resisting what is, rather than resting in faith.

Some days, even weeks, I feel beautifully connected. Other times, I don’t feel much at all. The common factor seems to be what’s happening in my personal life — how I’m feeling, what I’m experiencing, and how I’m reacting to adversity. Lately, not well. I’ve been moody and irritable.

But I’m learning that awareness is the first step back toward the light. When I feel myself drifting, I have to pause and realign. Stop. Breathe. Settle. Remind myself that the universe is still moving — even quietly, even beneath the noise in my mind, even within the tension of not feeling okay.

So I return to what I know brings me peace — a few moments every day to reconnect. Through prayer, writing, music, or just speaking out loud in the car. Because even when I don’t feel much, I’m choosing to show up anyway.

2. The Tension Between Faith and Mental Health

When I was 18, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I’m now in my early 30s, and honestly, these struggles have shaped far more than just my emotions — they’ve shaped my spirituality, my faith, and my ongoing relationship with both myself and whatever higher power is out there trying to make sense of me.

For years, I turned to alcohol to quiet my mind — a mind that seemed to have only two settings: overdrive and self-destruction. I drank to take the edge off existing. I hated myself. There were nights when I didn’t care if I woke up the next day. My logic back then? “If this is what life feels like, maybe the return policy’s still valid.” (Spoiler: it’s not.)

It wasn’t until I got sober and started doing the deep internal work — especially Step 4 in AA — that I realized just how much resentment I was carrying toward myself. Step 4 made me face my patterns, my pain, and my part in the chaos. It was brutal. But also… freeing. Like ripping off a Band-Aid that had been there since 2009.

Even now, when my mental health dips, my faith and spirituality sometimes dip right along with it. I start believing my negative thoughts, losing patience with myself, and getting restless in my own life. I know exactly what I should do — pray, meditate, journal, go outside — but instead, I choose to scroll Instagram and question all my life choices. It’s funny how we can know the right answers and still avoid them like an unwanted software update.

What usually helps isn’t complicated: taking a walk, reading something grounding, learning something new, calling a friend, or doing something for someone else. When I shift the focus off myself and toward something greater — service, connection, creativity — I start to feel realigned, like my soul finally exhaled.

In those quiet seasons, when life feels still and I start overthinking the silence, I realize I haven’t been feeding my spirit enough. Outside of the daily grind, I need those moments of stillness — the kind that force me to stop doing and start listening.

These are the times that test not just my sobriety, but my faith. And it’s in that space — between emotion and belief — that I learn what trust truly means.

3. Coming Back to Trust

What does it mean for me to trust — in God, in the universe, in something greater — even when I can’t feel it?
It means surrendering to the unseen. It means believing that even the storms are sacred — that they’re shaping me into who I’m meant to become. It’s understanding that growth isn’t always peaceful, but it’s always purposeful.

Trust, for me, is showing up with patience, compassion, and grace — for myself, just as I would for someone I love.

When I feel spiritually disconnected, I look around for reminders of divine timing. My wonderful boyfriend, for instance — I think, If I hadn’t gone through the pain I did, I never would have reconnected with him. Every heartbreak, every detour, led me here. Nothing was random. The universe, God, whatever name I give that higher energy, was aligning everything in ways I couldn’t see.

What brings me back to faith is often simple: nature, prayer, quiet moments in church or meditation. When I slow down enough to notice the world breathing around me, I can feel that divine presence again — steady, gentle, patient.

And when I think back, I realize that Spirit — God — has never actually left. Even in the moments I thought I was lost, He was guiding me back, often through people, small signs, or a quiet inner knowing.

Faith, I’m learning, isn’t proven in the easy days — it’s practiced in the stillness. Maybe the silence isn’t punishment at all, but an invitation: to listen differently, to lean in, to trust that even when I can’t feel much, I’m still being held.

4. A Gentle Reminder

The truth I want to hold onto right now: everything is unfolding exactly as it should. Life is good. Your Higher Power is good. The universe is kind.

If someone else were struggling with spirituality, faith and their mental health, I’d tell them: Don’t give up. Reach out for help. Offer yourself the same love and patience you’d give anyone else who’s hurting. Be kind. Be gentle. Keep showing up — one step, one breath at a time.

To show myself compassion in this season, I write. I reflect. I look back at how far I’ve come and remind myself: this isn’t about perfection; it’s about progress.

I don’t always understand the quiet, but I’m learning to stop resisting it. God’s silence — or the universe’s stillness — isn’t rejection; it’s redirection. It’s space to grow, to listen, to soften. Even when I can’t feel that divine presence, I know it’s still here — guiding me, preparing me, loving me through it all.

If you’re in a quiet season too, don’t run from it. Sit with it. Let it stretch you. The divine hasn’t gone anywhere — it’s just working in the background, waiting for you to slow down long enough to hear it again.