Sometimes I would sit with my journal open for half an hour and write nothing.

Not because I didn’t have time.

But because I didn’t know what to say anymore.

It’s strange how you can go through all the motions of a creative life—or a spiritual one—and still feel completely hollow inside it.

I was still showing up.

Still serving.

Still making things when asked.

Still checking boxes. Still reciting prayers.

But I felt like I was watching myself from across the room.

There was no sense of presence.

Just performance.

I kept wondering if something was wrong with me.

Because it seemed to work for everyone else.

They seemed inspired.

Lit up.

Filled.

But I just felt… gone.

Like I’d been emptied slowly, in ways I didn’t even notice, until there was nothing left to pour.

And I didn’t know how to name that emptiness without sounding ungrateful.

Or faithless.

Or broken.

So I smiled.

And stepped back—slowly.

Quietly.

I faded away.

No one really noticed.

And inside, I ached.