“Time After Time, I’m Going In Blind”

— P.O.D., Going In Blind

That line is so much more than just a lyric. It’s a mirror. And lately, I’ve been staring straight into it.

There have been seasons in my life where I’ve done everything right. I’ve pushed through, prayed hard, showed up anyway, and still felt like I was walking with my eyes closed. It wasn’t because I didn’t want clarity. It was because clarity just, well, didn’t come.

And yet, something keeps bringing me back. Back to the process. Back to hope. Back to the quiet belief that maybe—just maybe—I’m not lost. I’m just being led differently.

There’s something humbling about walking forward without certainty. It strips away the pride, performance, and polished version of ourselves we show to the world. It invites us to walk as we are—confused, hurting, hopeful, stubborn—all at once. And it reminds us that sometimes, the act of simply moving is the boldest thing we can do.

The Silence That Rattles Your Faith

I’ve walked through the kind of silence that rattles your faith. It’s the kind where you ask God questions and get no answers. The kind where you pray for direction and only get delayed. The kind where grief doesn’t knock—it kicks the door in, and all you can do is breathe.

There was a time I remember pacing the floor late at night, asking, "What do you want from me?" Not in anger. In exhaustion. In surrender. I wanted the answer to drop from the ceiling. I wanted a burning bush, a sign, anything. Instead? Just more silence.

I’ve learned that walking in blind doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means you’ve had the courage to keep walking without knowing the outcome. You trust that something—or Someone—still sees the way forward, even if you don’t.

This Is What the Journey Really Looks Like

For the past few months, I’ve been writing a book about my journey in listening. And, while writing it, I’m discovering it’s more of a series of books than just a single entry. And this—right here—is what the journey really looks like. It’s not polished or linear. And it’s definitely not always loud.

It’s messy. It’s brave. It’s made up of quiet choices that don’t always make sense until they do.

Writing this book has been a spiritual surgery. Every chapter I’ve written has pulled something deeper out of me. Memories. Regrets. Revelations. And more than once, I’ve wanted to stop. But listening means not quitting. It means tuning in even when everything inside you wants to shut down.

I used to think listening meant sitting in silence. Now, I know it means being willing to hear what hurts before you can hear what heals.

I’ve found that writing this book is less about what I have to say, and more about what life is trying to say through me. And that’s what real listening is—a willingness to be shaped in the process. It asks us if we can lay our story down without tying it up in a bow and trust that even the pages we never planned to write belong in the book.

Learning to Trust What You Can’t See

Faith gets romanticized a lot. We talk about mountains moving and breakthroughs coming. I don’t see faith as fireworks, though. I see it more as a whisper in the dark or putting your foot down and hoping the ground is still there.

There’s a holy kind of courage in not knowing and walking anyway. It is a rare kind of strength to not get your way and stay anyway. Blind faith to others may look like weakness, but I believe its radical, like overturning tables that have been distorted to rob the masses.

Maybe, going in blind isn’t talking about the absence of vision, but the presence of trust.

It’s easy to follow when the road is well lit. But what about when it isn’t? That’s when your trust becomes more than theory. That’s when you lean not on what you see, but on what you believe is true, even when there’s no evidence yet. It’s scary. And holy. And worth it.

Do All These Roads Lead Me Back to You?

There’s a part in the song that asks: “Do all these roads lead me back to you?”

Some days, I’ve asked that about God. Other days, I’ve asked it about myself. Am I ever going to feel whole again? Will this all mean something? Is any of this leading me somewhere worth going?

I don’t have all the answers. But I’m still walking. And if you are too, maybe that’s enough. Perhaps the steps we take in the dark are the ones that matter most.

I believe there is something sacred about the roads that make no sense. The ones that feel like detours may actually be the path. And the people we become along those confusing, winding, painful roads? They’re stronger. Softer. Wiser. More human.

Faith Doesn’t Always Feel Like Light

We love the idea of a breakthrough, of seeing everything finally clicking into place, and witnessing the moments when the clouds part and we can see again. But in my life? Some of the most sacred breakthroughs came in the dark. They came when I had no plan, backup, or sense of how it would work out. They came when I couldn’t rely on my sight, only on my willingness to stay present in the tension.

Faith doesn’t always feel like light. Sometimes it feels like weight. Like responsibility. Like a promise you’re still trying to believe in.

And maybe that’s okay.

Some of the deepest lessons are learned not in the light of certainty, but in the shadows of uncertainty. You don’t have to feel strong to be strong. Sometimes strength looks like quietly not giving up. Sometimes light is something you carry, not something you see.

For the Ones Still Showing Up

So this post? It’s for the ones who keep applying and keep hearing no. For the ones rebuilding after loss with no blueprint in sight. For the ones standing in a room full of people and still feeling unseen.

You are not broken. You are becoming.

And even if you’re going in blind, you’re still moving forward. You’re still here. And that means there’s more to come.

We don’t talk enough about the bravery of showing up, walking into rooms where you feel unsure, and starting again with no guarantee. That matters, and you’re not alone in it.

Final Thoughts: The Courage to Keep Going

There’s something sacred about the decision to keep going, especially when there are no answers, signs, or guarantees. This season may not be the breakthrough or resolution you’re looking for. But it could be the formation—the becoming.

Going in blind is evidence that your faith is bigger than your fear. That your trust runs deeper than your circumstances.

So, if today all you can do is take one more step, please do it. If all you can offer is presence, please show up. If all you can be is honest, let that be enough.

Because it is.

You are not alone in this. And you’re not walking without purpose. You’re walking toward something greater, whether or not you can see it yet.

Keep listening.

Keep moving.

And when the road doesn’t make sense… walk it anyway.

One day. Some day.