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Have you ever come to that moment, maybe slowly over time, maybe all at once, when something in your life no longer fits… or worse, you begin to realize it may actually be holding you back, even causing harm?
It might be a routine that once gave you structure but now feels hollow. A relationship that used to feel effortless but now calls for a different kind of honesty. A career that once sustained you but no longer feels like where you are meant to be. Even a way of understanding your faith that once nourished you, but now feels… too small.
Sometimes there is a moment that triggers it. Something shifts, and everything changes at once.
But often, nothing dramatic happens at all. No lightning bolt. No clear crisis.
Just a quiet, persistent awareness that begins to surface:
Something is changing.
And if we’re honest, that awareness unsettles us more than we like to admit.
Because change, even when it is necessary, often feels like loss at first. It asks us to release what we know before we can clearly see what is coming next. It asks us to trust God in a space where the ground feels less stable.
So we resist it.
We try to preserve what is already passing. We tell ourselves we just need to try harder, pray differently, hold things together a little longer.
But there are seasons in life, and in the spiritual life especially, when holding on is no longer faithfulness. It is fear.
And the quiet truth is this: God does not ask us to remain unchanged.
There’s a story I’ve carried with me for years from Rabbi Abraham Twerski, one of those simple teachings that quietly reshapes how you see your own life.
He tells the story of a lobster.
A lobster, as it grows, does not have the luxury of a shell that expands with it. The shell is hard, fixed, unyielding. And so as the lobster grows, that shell begins to feel tighter and tighter… more and more uncomfortable.
Eventually, the discomfort becomes too much to ignore.
So the lobster retreats under a rock, sheds its shell, and grows a new one. And then it does it again. And again. The growth is not smooth or easy. It is marked by repeated moments of vulnerability and exposure.
But here is the insight that stays with you:
It is precisely the discomfort that drives the growth.
If the lobster could medicate away the discomfort, if it could numb the pressure, it would never grow. It would remain small, confined, unchanged.
And I think about how often we do exactly that.
We feel the pressure of something no longer fitting, a life that has become too tight, a way of being that no longer holds who we are becoming… and our first instinct is to relieve the discomfort as quickly as possible.
We distract ourselves. We numb it. We convince ourselves nothing really needs to change.
But what if that discomfort is not the problem?
What if, at least in part, it is the signal?
Not that everything is wrong… but that something in us is ready to grow.
Scripture speaks of this more often than we tend to notice.
“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19)
That question lingers. Do you not perceive it?
Because sometimes the “new thing” God is doing is not immediately obvious. It doesn’t always arrive with clarity or reassurance. Sometimes it arrives as disruption. As restlessness. As the slow unraveling of what once felt certain.
And we can mistake that for distance from God.
But very often, it is the opposite.
In the history of the Church, the saints understood this deeply. St. John of the Cross spoke of the “dark night,” not as abandonment, but as a kind of purification. A stripping away of lesser attachments so that the soul could be more fully united to God.
That language can sound intense, but the lived experience is often very ordinary.
It is the parent learning to let go as their child becomes an adult.
It is the believer realizing that the faith they inherited needs to be claimed more deeply, more personally.
It is the moment when prayer feels dry, not because God has left, but because God is inviting us beyond surface-level devotion into something more real, more honest.
I’ve had those seasons myself.
Moments where what once worked no longer did. Where I had to admit, sometimes reluctantly, that I could not keep living or believing in exactly the same way.
And I wish I could tell you I navigated those transitions with calm confidence.
I didn’t.
There was resistance. There was grief. There was the quiet temptation to go backward instead of forward.
Because forward, at least for a time, felt uncertain.
But looking back, I can see something I could not fully see then: God was present in the transition, not just in the destination.
And I was never actually walking alone.
That is the part we most need to remember.
We are not asked to change ourselves through sheer willpower. We are not left to figure this out in isolation.
Christ walks with us into every new season.
“I am with you always, to the very end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).
Not just in the stable seasons. Not just when things feel clear or settled.
Always.
Which means even when you feel disoriented, even when you are unsure what this next phase of your life or faith is supposed to look like, you are not abandoned in it.
The Church, at its best, has always understood life as a journey of continual conversion. Not a one-time decision, but an ongoing deepening. A gradual reshaping of the heart.
That reshaping takes time.
It takes patience.
And it often takes walking through seasons we did not choose.
But those seasons are not wasted.
They are the soil in which something truer can grow.
So what do we do with this?
Not everything needs to be solved immediately. Not every question needs a quick answer.
But there are small, steady ways we can remain open to what God is doing.
First, pay attention to what feels different.
Not with panic, but with curiosity. Where do you sense restlessness? Where does something no longer fit? That awareness is often the beginning of discernment.
Second, stay rooted in prayer, even when it feels dry.
Especially then. Prayer in these seasons may feel simpler, even quieter. That is not failure. It is often a sign of something deepening.
Third, resist the urge to rush clarity.
We want resolution. God often works through process. Allow the season to unfold without forcing it into immediate meaning.
Fourth, remain connected to others.
Spiritual change can feel isolating, but it should not be lived in isolation. Trusted community, wise voices, and honest conversation matter more than we realize.
Fifth, remember what has not changed.
God’s character has not shifted. Christ’s presence has not withdrawn. Even when everything else feels uncertain, that remains steady.
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If you find yourself in a season of change right now, I want to say this as plainly as I can:
You are not behind.
You are not failing.
And you are not alone.
You are being invited, gently but persistently, into something deeper.
And while that invitation may feel uncomfortable at times, it is not meant to harm you. It is meant to form you.
We walk this road together.
If this reflection resonated with you, I would genuinely like to hear what season you find yourself in. Not for the sake of answers, but for the sake of shared understanding.
And if someone in your life is navigating change quietly, consider sharing this with them. It might help them feel a little less alone.
If this reflection strengthened you, consider becoming a supporting member so we can continue walking together.
A Prayer for the Changing Seasons
Lord God,
You are the One who remains steady when everything else shifts.
You see the places in our lives where things are changing, sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once. You know the parts of us that feel uncertain, the questions we cannot yet answer, the quiet fears we do not always name.
Give us the grace to trust You in these moments.
When we are tempted to cling to what is familiar simply because it is known, give us courage to release what You are asking us to let go of. When we feel disoriented, ground us in Your presence. When prayer feels dry or distant, remind us that You are still near.
Teach us to walk forward with patience.
To listen more deeply.
To follow where You lead, even when the path is not fully clear.
Surround us with people who will walk with us in truth and love. Strengthen us in the knowledge that we do not face these seasons alone.
And in all things, form our hearts to trust You more.
We place this season, and ourselves, into Your hands.
Amen.
Did this post give you something to think about? I would love to hear about it here in the comments!
If someone you know needs to hear this message, perhaps they are going through a change of seasons, send it to them.