God of My Misunderstanding

We all find our own path to God—whether we realize it or not.

Mine came through suffering. Not the romantic kind that builds character or makes for a good story. I’m talking about the kind that strips you bare. The kind that leaves you alone with your thoughts and a pain so loud it drowns out everything else. That kind of pain becomes its own higher power—just not one worth following.

For a long time, the word “God” came packaged with dogma, shame, and a list of rules I wanted nothing to do with. It felt like something people clung to out of fear or guilt. I didn’t need a religion. I needed a lifeline. And for a while, I convinced myself I didn’t need either.

But something changed. Slowly. Quietly. I started to see patterns. A presence. A shift in the air. I couldn’t explain it, and when I tried, it slipped further away. The more I tried to define it, the less I could feel it. So I stopped trying.

I don’t claim to understand what “it” is. I just know that when I let go—really let go—I feel it. God. Big Poppa. The Universe. Sky Daddy. Creative intelligence. Whatever name makes it easier to digest. The name doesn’t matter. The connection does.

And that connection only showed up when I finally got out of my own way.

For years, I treated life like a project I could manage into submission. If I controlled enough, anticipated enough, manipulated the right people or outcomes—I’d be safe. I wasn’t. That way of living left a trail of heartbreak, bruised relationships, and a few too many shit sandwiches with my name on them.

The shift came when I stopped pretending I had the map. When I stopped driving. Life started giving me hints—nudges about where to go—but I only noticed them when I shut up long enough to hear. When I moved out of the driver’s seat and rode shotgun with open eyes and some goddamn humility.

It’s not a natural position for me. It’s uncomfortable. But it’s also where I feel the presence of something bigger. In that space, things begin to line up—usually in the form of helping someone else, or someone showing up to help me. And that current? It feels effortless.

Not easy. Just no longer forced.

I’m still not part of any organized religion. Still not interested in a pamphlet or a pitch. But I’m also not here to knock anyone’s path. If it brings you closer to grace, I respect it.

As for me, I’ve got something now. I don’t always know what it is. But I know it’s real. And the more I surrender to it—not try to master or name it—the closer I feel.

That’s the paradox. The power I spent my life trying to control was never mine to own. It was always mine to trust.