When Someone Else Puts Words to Your Journey
On finding language for the faith I didn’t know I was living
This reflection was originally published on Medium under the “Even Here” publication.
Read it there → Even Here
“What matters most is not where we are, but where we’re going. Not our status, but our trajectory. Faith is no longer a static location — it’s a spiritual journey. And that changes everything.”
I recently came across a book that described faith not as a fixed destination but as an unfolding journey — and I nearly gasped.
It gave voice to something I had been carrying inside but couldn’t quite name. Suddenly, the threads of my spiritual journey — what I’ve been writing about, wrestling with, living — came into sharper focus.
I realised that the in-between isn’t a detour or a waiting room. It’s not a lesser version of faith. It’s not something to grow out of or move past. It is the path. The movement. The walk. And strangely, that was reassuring.
It wasn’t that I didn’t believe anymore. It wasn’t that I had left the faith.
But faith as I once knew it — a mix of deep spiritual experience and theological certainty — was no longer enough. My background tradition had taught me to seek God’s presence and listen for His voice. Later, I was drawn to the clarity and structure of doctrine, wanting to ground my experience in something solid. Both shaped me. But even then, something in me longed for more. I’m learning now that faith doesn’t always tie up neatly. It’s not about resolving every tension, but staying open and responsive — even when the path isn’t fully lit.
A Journey, Not a Status
The idea that faith is a trajectory rather than a status resonates deeply with me. I was formed in a tradition that emphasised encountering God — through prayer, worship, and the leading of the Spirit. Later on, I found myself drawn to theological frameworks that offered clarity and order, eager to make sense of what I believed and why. For a time, I measured faith by how aligned I was with “correct” doctrine, or how coherent my beliefs were. But over time, I’ve come to see that faith isn’t something you arrive at. It’s something you walk in.
The in-between, too, is often misunderstood. It’s seen as a phase to outgrow, a stage to pass through, or just a space to wait in before something more stable arrives. But I’m beginning to see that it’s none of those. It’s not just a transition — it’s a way of walking. A kind of faith that lets go of answers and leans into trust. A posture that keeps me humble, expectant, and willing to move forward — even without clarity.
From the beginning, God has called people out — out of the familiar, out of certainty, into trust. Abraham was told to go to an unknown land. The disciples followed Jesus without knowing where it would lead. The early church had to learn, unlearn, and be transformed.
So why should I expect faith today to be any different?
The Power of Naming
There’s something profoundly healing about being able to name your experience.
For a long time, I didn’t know what I was going through. Was I doubting? Deconstructing? Drifting? I couldn’t quite tell. But I also knew I couldn’t go back to pretending everything made perfect sense.
Reading that book helped me realise: I’m not alone. There’s a name for this. And not only that — there’s a faithful way through.
Naming doesn’t reduce the complexity. But it gives shape to the formless. It places you in a larger story, one that others are walking too.
And Yet — The Fear of Labels
Still, there’s a tension. Labels can be clarifying, but they can also feel like cages.
I hesitate to call this “deconstruction” — or “reconstruction” — because both words now carry baggage. To some, they signal rebellion or instability. To others, they sound like a trend, a phase, or a system to manage doubt. I worry that naming where I am might invite misunderstanding — people might assume I’ve lost my faith, or that I’ve rebuilt something entirely different from what I began with.
There’s also the fear of being too much for some and not enough for others. Too honest, too uncertain, too unfinished. But also not radical enough, not angry enough, not progressive enough.
It’s tempting to stay silent just to avoid being misread. But I’m learning that silence doesn’t guard your soul; it often isolates it. And I’d rather be misunderstood for being honest than praised for pretending.
Writing the Journey
That’s what I’ve been doing in my blog all along — naming the journey as I live it. I’ve written about the in-between spaces, the shifts in belief, the longing to belong even when I no longer fit neatly into traditional categories.
And maybe you’re somewhere in that too. Maybe you’re not quite where you used to be, but not sure where you’re going either. That’s okay.
The in-between is not spiritual failure. It’s not indecision. It’s not a half-faith waiting to become a full one.
It’s faith in motion. It’s the lived reality of following a God who still calls people forward.
Faith isn’t a finish line. It’s a path. And you don’t have to walk it alone.
Looking back, I think that’s what was so moving: I found language for the faith I was already living. Not a system to explain, but a path to walk. Not a position to hold, but a journey to keep going. Naming it didn’t fix everything, but it helped me see that I’m not lost — I’m just still moving.
What language has helped you name your own faith journey?