I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to drift from God.
There was no crisis of faith. No dramatic rebellion. If anything, I was still doing all the right things, praying, reading Scripture, talking about God. I still believed. That’s what made it so unsettling when I realized something was off. It happened on an ordinary weekday afternoon. I was sitting in my car, parked but not ready to go inside, staring at the dashboard longer than I needed to, the kind of pause you don’t plan but your body insists on. And that’s when it hit me: I hadn’t actually talked to God in days. Not the quick habitual prayers. I mean, really talked. No honesty. No checking in. Just silence.
What surprised me wasn’t guilt. It was how easy it had been to let that happen. Because here’s the thing most of us don’t say out loud: we usually don’t drift from God because we stop believing. We drift because life fills every empty space, and we don’t notice what’s missing until we finally stop moving. God wasn’t distant that afternoon. I was distracted. And that realization didn’t come with condemnation — it came with an invitation. If you’ve felt that same quiet gap open up, this one’s for you. Here are five ordinary things that helped me close it.
1. Talk to God like He’s actually there
For most of my life, I thought I knew how to pray. I knew the language. I knew how to sound grateful and end my prayers the right way. From the outside, it probably looked healthy. What I didn’t realize was how much of myself I was leaving out. I didn’t bring my frustration. I didn’t bring my confusion. I definitely didn’t bring my anger. I brought what I thought were the right words, “Lord, guide my path,” “God, give me peace,” all true, all polite, all very safe. But what I was actually thinking most days was closer to “I feel lost” and “I’m tired of pretending I understand what You’re doing.”
I didn’t think I was being dishonest. I thought I was being faithful. But somewhere along the way, I’d been editing my prayers instead of praying them. One day, sitting in my car already overwhelmed and already behind, instead of “Lord, guide my path,” I finally said out loud, “I feel lost. And if I’m honest… I’m actually kind of mad about it.” Then I stopped. I waited. I expected guilt. It never came. What came instead was relief. That was the moment I understood God wasn’t waiting for better prayers. He was waiting for honest ones. So ask yourself: What have you been editing out of your prayers because it didn’t sound faithful enough?
2. Learn how to be quiet with Him
This was harder for me than praying.
For a long time, I thought listening to God meant waiting for something obvious, a clear sentence, a strong feeling. And because nothing like that was happening, I assumed I just wasn’t good at this part of faith. What I didn’t see was how little space I was actually giving Him to speak.
My days were full. The moment I woke up, my mind was already moving, checking the phone, replaying conversations, planning what was next. Even my “quiet” moments weren’t quiet. I remember sitting down to listen and realizing I’d reached for my phone without even thinking about it. That told me more than I wanted to admit. Stillness, it turns out, didn’t bring instant peace. It brought awareness, and awareness surfaced things I’d been avoiding. At first, it didn’t feel spiritual at all. It just felt awkward. But I kept coming back, and slowly certain thoughts began to arrive with peace rather than pressure.
God hadn’t been silent. I had been busy. Where in your day is there genuinely no room for God to get a word in?
3. The small yes that changes everything
I always assumed obedience would feel obvious, that if God wanted something from me, it would come with certainty. And because I wasn’t having those dramatic moments, I figured I was probably fine. What I didn’t notice was how often I was saying no in quieter ways. Not rebelliously. Just subtly. There’d be a nudge to do something differently, and almost every time, I had a reasonable explanation for ignoring it. I was tired. I didn’t want it to be awkward. I’d deal with it later. And later became never more often than I’d like to admit.
I remember replaying a conversation one afternoon, feeling justified and misunderstood, sensing a nudge to reach out and clear the air. I didn’t do it. Not because I didn’t hear it, but because obedience felt inconvenient. But obedience, I’ve learned, rarely looks dramatic. It looks like humility. Slowing down. Apologizing while you still feel hurt. Choosing honesty when a shortcut would be easier. Nobody applauds those moments. And yet closeness grew one small yes at a time. What’s the small nudge you keep filing under “later”?
4. Stay when it would be easier to pull away
This is the chapter I resisted the most, because this is where my faith tends to thin out. When life gets hard, my instinct isn’t to lean in. It’s to pull back, not dramatically, just quietly. There was a season where it happened so slowly I didn’t notice. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed one night, Bible still closed, telling myself I was just tired. That tonight didn’t count. I’d try again tomorrow. Tomorrow came, and I said the same thing again. Not because I was angry, because I didn’t know how to talk to God about what I was feeling, so I kept it inside, stayed busy, and called it being strong.
I’ll be honest about one night in particular. I was sitting alone, lights low, no music, no distractions. And in that quiet, I felt this lump in my chest I hadn’t let myself feel all day. I wasn’t angry enough to shout or hopeful enough to feel inspired. I was just there. And I whispered, “God, I don’t even know what to say right now.” That was it. No Scripture. No resolution. Just honesty. And something inside me softened, not because anything changed, but because I realized I didn’t have to hold myself together in His presence.
What still humbles me is that He stayed close in seasons where I wasn’t offering Him much. No clarity. No confidence. Just presence. Sometimes staying looks like worship. Sometimes it looks like obedience. And sometimes it just looks like sitting there, tears in your eyes, saying, “I’m still here.” That counts more than we realize. When things get heavy, do you lean in or quietly disappear?
5. Make room for God in real life
Eventually, I had to admit something uncomfortable: closeness wasn’t missing because I didn’t care. It was missing because I didn’t make room. I didn’t chase God off. I just slowly stopped crowding Him out.
It showed up in the smallest ways. The first thing I reached for in the morning wasn’t God, it was my phone. Before my feet even hit the floor, my mind was already full of notifications, news, and other people’s urgency. By the time I thought about God, I was already behind. So He kept getting whatever was left over. I never said it out loud, but my actions were saying it clearly: everything else gets first access to me, and God gets the leftover energy.
That stung not because I felt judged, but because I felt seen.
What finally shifted things wasn’t adding more spiritual habits. It was changing the order. Some mornings that meant opening Scripture before opening my phone, even just a few verses. Other days, it meant praying while making coffee, not because it felt holy, but because it was honest. There were dry days and repetitive days and days I wondered if it made any difference. But roots grow quietly. Making room didn’t magically fix everything. But the noise softened. The urgency eased. Closeness came back not because I chased God down, but because I finally stopped crowding Him out. What’s getting first access to you each morning, and what’s getting the leftovers?
Start with one
Closeness with God isn’t reserved for people who have their faith perfectly together. It’s for the tired. The distracted. The ones who didn’t mean to drift, but did. If that realization feels heavy, don’t let it turn into shame. Shame makes us hide, and hiding is the opposite of closeness. You don’t need to fix everything or master all five of these. Just start with one.
And I want to be honest here, I’m still figuring this out too. Even working through this, I caught myself slipping back into old habits. I’m not sharing this because I’ve mastered it. I’m sharing it because I’m learning how to notice when I drift, and choose to come back.
So ask yourself gently: What is God inviting me into right now?
Because while you’re taking small steps toward Him, He isn’t standing far off waiting for you to catch up. He’s already right there. He always has been.
This is Unmoved & Rooted.
Faith that doesn’t rush.
Faith that keeps coming back.
If this felt close to home today, don’t rush past it. Sit with it and ask: which one of these five is God inviting me into first? If someone came to mind while you were reading, share this with them. You never know who might need the reminder that drifting isn’t the end of the story. Coming back is always possible.