Friday, February 13, 2026
A spiritual feeding drought, that’s what I have been in.
No reading, barely preparing for the meeting, not even praying at the beginning or end of the day. Sometimes not even reaching for the granola bar until the end of the day…or two days later. Even if I’m still breathing, at the very least digestive issues would start to surface.
As I had advised Jessica and as Jesse mentioned during the congregation pioneer meeting, speaking about our beliefs is a pioneers most direct source of joy. And I haven’t done that in what feels like at least three weeks.
While praying to Jehovah just now, I realized where this started—the meet up with Anna. January 9. The next week, the follow up text from her that I didn’t want to reply to led to a mopey week of strike from me.
That same week, I also got a happy anniversary message from Bri, two weeks early. I think I attach too much to the correspondence with Bri, and so I left it for two weeks.
In that time, I went on strike. Strike against the outside world, against responsibilities, against laundry, against my routine. When I go on strike, I seem to strike against myself, which is so counterintuitive when you put it on paper like this. How silly, how inefficient…how familiar.
At the same time, I was starting training at Fredy’s dad’s store. Truth be told, I did not enjoy the idea. I needed to give myself a pep talk each morning on the way there to keep my head held high, wipe away the resistance, bruised ego and the feeling of being taken for granted, and set an attitude of learning in their place. This training brought me outside, threw me off my routine, made me exhausted, gave me an excuse to throw out my routine. It added to it and let me hide behind it.
The only thing keeping me accountable and not completely in the depths is Fredy and his constant presence. Perhaps it’s just as Abigail says, now that I’m married, she doesn’t worry as much when I’m in a cave, because Fredy’s there to keep me from falling in. I do feel this power, and it is sure a blessing. But I’m almost afraid of how much I’m relying on this one thread; I feel like this singular support is not enough, and, honestly, it almost feels lonely. Maybe that’s my own trust issue talking; what if my mopiness is so heavy that it breaks Fredy?
With Bri, my brain now links her with guilt for not going back to China, both my not wanting to at the end of the pandemic—despite still planning to; I knew it was the right thing to do—and my choosing a life partner who does not want to go. Guilt in Chinese can be 愧疚感 or 罪疚感. I think I feel both, but not towards Jehovah, but towards Bri. This deepened after not being able to visit them on our trip in May 2025. Though I was heartbroken over it, coming down to it, between Bri and Fredy, I chose Fredy. Ironically, Jehovah has come to have nothing to do with this.
So now, it comes to a fulcrum. Will I have one this time? Of course.
Many things cause a drought, but only one thing is need to resolve it: water. If I get back to reading and praying, I will have strength to withstand all the other things that silently demand my mental energy, judgment and willpower. That’s all I need for life. That is the simplest and most direct way of relying on Jehovah.
My tendency to let myself fall into a strike, which always leads to the cave, is another hazard. Why do I tell myself that I want this week off? Off everything? I need to prepare a compensation package. Instead of striking on everything, I can allow myself to stay home, but amp up my studying and meditating instead. Enjoy that whole home ASMR vibe and make it a true recharge retreat instead of a strike. Life is not aesthetic, and it shouldn’t need to be in order to sustain joy.
Sigh, I do feel better. I didn’t know I was carrying this much all at once. It’s like shopping at Daiso without a basket; you’re bound to start dropping the tension rods.
