When God 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 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 to Him. Other times, I don’t feel Him 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 to Him.
When I notice that drift, I have to stop and reassess. Calm down. Breathe. Remind myself: He’s still here. Even in the noise of my mind. Even in the tension of not feeling okay.

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

2. The Tension Between Faith and Mental Health

When I was a teenager, I was diagnosed with mental health disorders. I’m now in my early 30s, and I can say with honesty that these struggles have shaped not just my emotions — but my faith. My relationship with God, and with myself, has been a constant work in progress.

I turned to alcohol for years to quiet my mind and numb the pain of existing in a brain that never slowed down. I hated myself. There were nights when I didn’t care if I lived or died. I thought, If this is what life feels like, just take me.

It wasn’t until I got sober and began doing the deep internal work — especially Step 4 in AA — that I realized how much resentment I had built up toward myself, and in turn, toward God. Step 4 forced me to look at my patterns, my pain, my part in things. It was brutal, but also freeing.

Now, when my mental health dips, my faith can dip with it. I start to believe my negative thoughts. I get discontent in my life, moody, and impatient with myself. I know what I should be doing — but I resist it. It’s strange how we can know the right answers and still avoid them.

Sometimes what I really need is simple: to take a walk, to read something grounding, to learn something new, to reach out to someone, to help another person. I’ve learned that when I shift the focus from myself to something greater — service, connection, creation — I begin to feel closer to God again.

During “quiet” seasons, I often realize I’m not doing enough to stay connected to Him. Not because He left — but because I drifted.

Sometimes, when I pray, I feel like I’m pouring my heart out and the presence of God feels thick in the room. Other mornings, it’s like I’m talking to the roof of my car.

But silence doesn’t mean He’s gone.
Sometimes it’s just part of the healing — a spiritual stillness that invites me to listen differently, to find Him not in the noise, but in the quiet surrender of simply saying, “I’m still here.”

These are the moments that test not only my sobriety but my faith. It’s in this space — between feeling and faith — that I learn what trust really means.

3. Coming Back to Trust

What does it mean for me to trust God even when I can’t feel Him?
It means trusting something I can’t see. Believing that everything will work out — that the storms in life are preparing me for something greater and shaping me into who I’m meant to be. We are stronger than we think. I remind myself to show up for me the way I would show up for a loved one: with patience, compassion, and grace.

What reminders or truths do I cling to when I feel spiritually disconnected?
I look at my wonderful boyfriend and think, If I hadn’t gone through the pain I did, I never would have reconnected with him. He was brought into my life for a reason, and every detail — no matter how painful — aligned perfectly. I trusted that the right person would come when I focused on bettering myself, and God delivered that in His timing.

What helps me return to a place of faith?
Nature, church, and prayer. When I slow down and notice the world around me, I can feel Him again.

How has God shown up for me in the past, even when I thought He was silent?
Every time I thought I’d lost my way, He was there — sometimes quietly, sometimes through people He placed in my life — guiding me back to where I needed to be.

I’m learning that faith isn’t proven in the good days — it’s practiced in the quiet ones. Maybe God’s silence isn’t punishment but an invitation: to listen differently, to slow down, to trust that even when I can’t feel Him, He’s still here.

4. A Gentle Reminder

What truth do I want to remind myself of right now?
Everything is going to be okay. Life is good. He is good.

If someone else was struggling with faith and mental health, what would I say to them?
Keep holding on. Reach out for help. Treat yourself as you would someone you care for deeply. Be kind to yourself. Focus on bettering yourself daily. Become your own best friend. You may not control everything, but you can accept what is and keep moving forward — one step, one breath, one prayer at a time.

How can I show myself compassion in this season instead of criticism?
By journaling, documenting, and looking back at how far I’ve come. It’s not about perfection — it’s about progress.

I don’t always understand the quiet, but I’m learning to stop fighting it. God’s silence isn’t rejection — it’s redirection. It’s a space for me to grow, to listen, to strengthen my faith. Even when I can’t feel Him, I know He’s still guiding me.

If you’re in a silent season too, don’t run from it. Sit with it. Let it teach you. God isn’t gone — He’s just working in the quiet, waiting for you to rest long enough to hear Him again.