As I become more conscious, I’m starting to see how much of life I used to miss. When I’m consumed by my mind—especially fear—I lose access to what’s actually happening right in front of me. There’s a whole world moving, breathing, alive… and I’m shut off from it, trapped in thought.
I still catch myself there more often than I’d like. Lost in thinking. Replaying scenarios. Feeding fear. And while that used to frustrate me, I’m learning to notice it instead of fight it.
Sometimes I’ll be walking my dog, and I realize I’m not really there at all. My body is moving, but my mind is somewhere else entirely, dragging my emotions along with it. In those moments, I pause—simple, almost mechanical:
Feel your feet.
Feel the air on your face.
Look at the trees moving.
It doesn’t fix everything, but it creates space. Even a small break in the pattern matters.
I’ve heard that in heightened fear, your peripheral vision narrows. That makes sense to me—because when I’m caught in it, all I can see are my thoughts. It’s like I’ve stepped into a horror movie, and I’m both the one being chased and the one holding the weapon. Even now, writing this, I can feel the pull of that old pattern—fear, worry, trying to think my way out of it.
But here’s the truth: I am making progress.
Maybe not as fast as I want, but it’s real.
Prayer and meditation, twice a day, are slowly loosening the grip of those old cycles. Not eliminating them—but softening them. Creating more moments where I can step back instead of getting pulled under.
When I catch myself beating myself up over old habits, I find hope in something deeper—my awareness, my openness, my growing connection to God. It reminds me that maybe it’s not just my mind doing the seeing… maybe it’s my soul.
That awareness didn’t come in theory—it came through real life… through loss, through grief, through moments that forced me to look beyond what I could control or understand.
My oldest brother Manuel passed away in April of 2025.
And something else has been happening…
After Manuel passed, a hummingbird started showing up—consistently, almost intentionally. Not just flying by, but hovering… lingering… like it was aware of me. It happened enough that I couldn’t ignore it.
And then recently, after I had a dream about him… the hummingbird came back.
Now I see it in the quiet moments—when I let the dog out in the morning. Sometimes it’s moving quickly, like you’d expect. But other times it’s completely still, perched on the light strings just above me… almost watching. Present. Aware.
And I’ve had to ask myself—what do I think this is?
I don’t believe it’s random.
I believe, in some way I can’t fully explain, it’s a form of communication. Not in words, not in something I can prove or define—but something I can feel. A reassurance.
Like he’s okay.
Like he’s been received.
Like he’s at peace.
And maybe even more than that… it feels like a small window into something greater. A reminder that life doesn’t end the way we think it does. That what God creates isn’t confined to this human experience alone.
I have to give myself grace here, because part of me wants to question it, analyze it, or dismiss it. But another part of me—the quieter part—just knows.
And I think that’s where my spiritual work is deepening… not always in the center of my awareness, but in the periphery. In the subtle things I would’ve completely missed before. Moments that only reveal themselves when I’m not consumed by thought or emotion.
To me, it feels like a nod from God.
A gentle one. Not loud, not overwhelming—but enough to say:
Stay on the path. You’re okay. There’s more going on than you can see.
So I’m learning to stay open.
Open to the present moment.
Open to what I can’t fully understand.
Open to the possibility that not everything meaningful needs to be explained.
Because maybe the real shift isn’t in controlling my thoughts…
Maybe it’s in no longer being closed off to what’s already here.
And maybe, just maybe…
love doesn’t leave—
it just finds quieter ways to show up.
Prayer
God,
Thank You for meeting me in the quiet moments—
in the seen and the unseen.
Help me to trust what I don’t fully understand,
to stay open, and to walk in faith over fear.
Remind me that I am not my thoughts,
but Yours—held, guided, and never alone.
Amen.
