There was a time when peace, to me, meant nothingness.
Not stillness. Not reflection. Just… nothing.
No stress. No responsibility. No expectations.
If I could wake up and have nothing to do, no one to answer to, and zero demands—I thought that was peace.
I can picture those days clearly. It was after my divorce. A season where I was drowning in sadness, and all I wanted was to stop feeling everything. The quiet wasn’t comforting. It was numbing. And at the time, I confused the two.
Every morning, I woke up dreading the day. Not because of what was coming—but because nothing was coming. I had no plans, no responsibilities, and nothing calling me forward. There wasn’t a single reason to get out of bed other than hunger or boredom. So I stayed there as long as I could.
When Numbness Masquerades as Peace
On days off from work, I’d sleep in as late as possible. No alarm. No structure. Then I’d shuffle to the kitchen, pour myself a soda, maybe grab a bowl of cereal—whatever required the least effort. If I had cigarettes, I’d smoke a few. Then I’d park myself in front of a screen and disappear.
World of Warcraft was my escape hatch. I’d spend 10, 12, sometimes 16 hours straight immersed in quests and raids. Whole weekends would blur together into a haze of fantasy worlds and glowing screens. Bathroom breaks, quick meals, maybe a shower every few days—but other than that, I barely moved. I wasn’t trying to build anything. I was trying to vanish.
It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t even rest.
It was disappearance.
And what’s strange is—I knew it.
Every day, I felt a quiet emptiness. Like a low hum of pain that never shut off. I hated it. I hated myself for it. But I didn’t know how to get out of it.
It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to do anything.
I didn’t want to feel anything either.
The best I could do was mute everything.
And I called that peace.
When Peace Started to Feel Like Emptiness
I didn’t have some big breakthrough moment.
There wasn’t a rock bottom or a single turning point. But the wear on my soul began to show.
I remember sitting in my computer chair one night—mouse in hand, heart racing from another pointless battle—and feeling like I didn’t even recognize myself. I wasn’t moving toward anything. I wasn’t showing up for anyone. I was just floating.
That’s when the stillness I used to crave started to feel… dangerous.
I noticed that when I had nothing to do, I didn’t feel free—I felt unanchored.
It felt like the world was spinning and I wasn’t part of it. Like life was moving on without me, and I was stuck in neutral. And the silence I once called peace now felt like a trap. A void I couldn’t escape.
Peace Isn’t the Absence of Pressure—It’s the Presence of Purpose
That’s when I started chasing something else.
Not noise. Not busyness.
Direction.
Peace stopped being about the absence of pressure. It started being about the presence of purpose.
I started measuring peace not by how calm things felt on the surface—but by how aligned they felt underneath.
Was I doing what God called me to do?
Was I moving toward the man I was made to become?
Was I showing up for the people that mattered?
If the answer was yes, I felt grounded.
Even if I was tired.
Even if things were messy.
Even if it was hard.
The weirdest part is, I still long for rest—but now I understand the kind of rest that actually renews me doesn’t come from escaping life.
It comes from living it with meaning.
I found that when my calendar was empty, so was my heart.
But when I began to fill my days with intentional movement—prayer, relationships, progress—I started to feel rooted again.
And slowly, that deep hum of emptiness quieted.
What Peace Means to Me Now
Today, peace comes from progress.
From knowing I’m walking in the right direction.
When I:
- Spend time in prayer or Scripture
- Show up with my wife and kids
- Follow through on the mission God’s given me
- Keep momentum on my health or finances
…that’s when I feel most at rest.
Not because life is easy.
But because it’s anchored.
There’s still part of me that wants to lay around and escape. That old version of peace still whispers sometimes.
But I’ve learned to be cautious with stillness.
Because when you’ve spent years using rest as a way to avoid responsibility, it’s easy to slip back into hiding and call it peace.
Now I know the difference.
Peace isn’t doing nothing.
It’s doing the right things—and trusting God with the results.
I want to go to sleep each night knowing I lived like it mattered.
I want to wake up each day knowing I’m walking with God—even if the path is steep.
I used to think peace was the absence of struggle.
Now I know it’s the presence of God in the middle of it.
That’s the kind of peace I’m building now.
Want a simple way to stay grounded—even when life feels heavy?
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