There was a time when my faith was loud — filled with hallelujahs, fast songs, long prayers, and holy ambition. I thought volume meant devotion, that the louder my praise, the closer Heaven would lean in. But all that noise eventually started to wear me down. Not because it was bad, but because it wasn’t mine anymore. I was repeating what I’d been taught, not what I truly believed. The noise became heavy. And one day, I realized that maybe God doesn’t need to be shouted to — maybe He just wants to be heard.
When I started practicing silence, it felt strange at first. My mind kept reaching for words, my mouth for prayers. But something in the stillness began to shift me. I stopped talking at God and started listening with Him. I began to feel that same presence I once chased in church — but this time, it wasn’t wrapped in emotion. It was wrapped in peace. And that peace didn’t need a stage, a microphone, or a crowd. It just needed me to be still.
Now, faith feels lighter. Simpler. It’s not about performance or perfection. It’s about awareness — knowing that love and divinity flow through every quiet moment, every act of kindness, every breath I take. I no longer confuse noise for anointing or silence for absence. I’ve found God in both — but He speaks clearer in the calm.
So when people ask me what faith looks like for me now, I tell them this: it’s not loud anymore. It doesn’t need to be. Faith without the noise is just peace with presence — and that’s enough.