I grew up holding a lot of beliefs I didn’t choose. Family, culture, country, church, the algorithm everywhere I turned, something was shaping me. For a long time I didn’t notice. I was just living, collecting opinions and patterns because they were nearby. Only later did I realise how rare it is to stop and ask, “Do I actually believe this? Do I want this?” The lack of discernment around me felt loud and I could hear my own lack in it too. I’m not here to give a guide. I’m just telling the truth of how I’m learning to listen to myself and to God slowly, messily, and in real time.
My “wake up” wasn’t dramatic. It was a steady discomfort that wouldn’t leave. Things that looked perfect from the outside made me feel uneasy inside. Opportunities I thought I should want left me restless. I tried to ignore it. I told myself I was being ungrateful or overthinking. But the feeling kept returning: This isn’t mine. Discernment didn’t arrive as a big revelation. It came as a nudge. Then a pause. Then a pattern. I started paying attention to the quiet no one else could hear the small “not this” that sat in my chest when everything around me said “yes.”
I’ve followed the crowd without meaning to. Social media sells a polished version of success, culture hands you a script, and people who love you can still point you toward a life that doesn’t fit your soul. I’ve walked paths because they were paved, not because they were mine.
There’s a strange grief that comes when you wake up and realise you’ve been performing a life. It’s humbling. It’s also freeing. Discernment, for me, sounds like: Pause. Breathe. You’re allowed to choose again. I’m learning it’s okay to outgrow what used to fit, even if I can’t explain it neatly to anyone else.
It took burnout, disappointments, and honest loneliness to push me inward. When I got tired of explaining away my unease, I started sitting with it. Prayer helped. Stillness helped. I gave myself quiet on purpose no noise, no crowd, just me and God and the thoughts I usually scroll past.
Journaling (yes, the Notes app) became a mirror. I wrote without trying to be deep. I just told the truth. Slowly I could see which beliefs were mine and which I’d inherited. Some days it was clarity; other days it was fog. But even in the fog, I noticed a simple test forming in me. When a choice brought a deep, steady peace quiet, not flashy it was usually right for me. When a choice made me feel small, rushed, or anxious, that was a red flag even if it looked “right” on paper.
Lately I’ve been validating what I believe not with hearsay, not with tradition for tradition’s sake, but with Scripture. I’m asking: Where did I get this idea from? Does it align with God’s word or just with what’s popular? It’s confronting. It clears smoke. It also reminds me that borrowed convictions can’t hold up a real life. I need my own relationship with God, my own obedience, my own yes and no.
Choosing alignment can feel like choosing isolation at first. People don’t always understand a decision that gave you peace but doesn’t make sense on the outside. I’ve had to accept that. I’ve had to accept that I’m not who I was five years ago and that’s allowed. I keep asking myself, “Is this true for me here, now, with God?” Not “Is this trending?” Not “Is this what they expect?”
Courage is a muscle I’m still building. Some days I’m bold. Other days I’m shaky. But even when I’m scared, I want to be honest. I’d rather live with a clear spirit than a perfect image.
Not everything popular is wise. Not everything beautiful is good for me. Not everything offered needs to be taken. Discernment is teaching me to slow down, feel fully, and choose consciously. To let peace not pressure lead. To unlearn when something isn’t mine anymore. To keep returning to God for the next small step. At the end of the day, truth isn’t just what the world says it is. It’s what aligns with who I am becoming and most importantly, what aligns with God. I’m still learning. But this time, I’m learning awake.
For so long, I gave without thinking twice always ready to help, always pouring out. But in my quiet struggles, I realised the ones I poured into weren’t pouring back into me. That moment hurt, but it taught me this: being selfless doesn’t mean abandoning myself. My peace matters too.