Learning to Wait When Everything in Me Wants to React

Trusting God When I Don’t Trust My Own Judgment

Author's note:

This post was written in the middle of a difficult and emotionally heavy week. I’m still sorting through fear, regret, and uncertainty, and I don’t have clear answers yet. What I do have is faith, prayer, and a commitment to wait rather than react—even when waiting hurts.

This is my attempt to choose wisdom over impulse and trust God where I no longer trust my own judgment.

Ever since the events of Wednesday, February 4th, I’ve been struggling—not in a surface-level way, but deep down where old failures tend to resurface. What happened shook me and reopened familiar doubts. It reminded me how badly I once derailed my own life, and how quickly fear can convince me that I’m still that man.

Sunday was hard.

I worried about seeing the mother of my oldest daughter’s friend. I didn’t want her to be upset, but more than that, I wanted her to know that I wasn’t angry with her or her daughter. I carried fear into that day, along with a tangle of complicated emotions. My mind kept running ahead to worst-case scenarios. What if her daughter had unknowingly stepped into a legal situation she never anticipated? What if a text went to the wrong person? What if someone reacted badly and she got hurt?

I felt a sense of responsibility to protect her—even from herself.

At first, I felt like a failure for not being able to handle this on my own. That old reflex kicked in: You should know what to do. You should be stronger than this. But sitting with it longer, I realized something important. Not having all the answers isn’t failure. Acting as if I do would be. There’s a difference between responsibility and arrogance, and I’ve paid dearly in the past for confusing the two.

I don’t have all the answers—and pretending that I do has only ever made things worse.
I can do many things, but I am not built to carry everything.
Some situations are simply beyond my ability to manage alone, and admitting that is not weakness.
Asking for help—asking for wisdom—is not failure. It’s reality.

Scripture puts words to this better than I ever could:

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart;
do not depend on your own understanding.
Seek his will in all you do,
and he will show you which path to take.”
— Proverbs 3:5–6 (NLT)

That verse doesn’t promise clarity on my timeline. It doesn’t say I’ll like the path. But it does tell me where trust belongs—and where it doesn’t. My own understanding has limits. God’s does not.

I spoke with one of my pastors on Sunday, and he gave me advice that was both biblical and deeply practical: Wait. Don’t rush into a conversation. Even if I’ve done nothing wrong, I don’t know how the other person is feeling. Space can be an act of love. If I still feel compelled to speak, I can do so next Sunday.

Waiting is hard for me. But faith rarely asks for speed—it asks for obedience.

The service itself was good. I prayed at the altar. I was grateful for the quiet support of a few people. But once the service ended, reality rushed back in. Families gathered their children and went home together. And I went back to my bedroom.

Alone.

That’s when the familiar feelings returned—disqualification, shame, that quiet voice asking whether I’ve forfeited the right to want anything more. I hate how quickly that voice still finds me.

After church, I went to see the ice sculptures at Confederation Park, just to get my mind off things. For a few moments, it worked. Then my thoughts drifted back. I imagined taking my kids there, laughing and pointing things out together. Instead, I stood there alone, wondering what my family life will look like going forward.

Will it always be like this?
Will it get better?
Or will it get harder before it does?

When it comes to my oldest daughter, I don’t yet know what to feel. I was angry for a moment, but that gave way to sadness. I’ve apologized sincerely. I love her—and all of my children—with everything I have. But I also have to be honest about my limits. I don’t know if I can withstand the kind of stress that situations like last week create.

I’ve been encouraged to give grace, and I agree with that. I want to live that out. But grace doesn’t mean self-destruction. I also have a responsibility to protect myself. The choices she made could create real consequences for me, if only at the level of perception. For now, I haven’t reached out, and I don’t have immediate plans to. I’m trying to move carefully—wisely—not fearfully.

That’s where my faith is carrying me right now.

Scripture reminds me that I’m not expected to manufacture wisdom on my own:

“If you need wisdom, ask our generous God, and he will give it to you.
He will not rebuke you for asking.”
— James 1:5 (NLT)

That promise matters to me. Especially now. Especially when I don’t trust my instincts and don’t want to repeat old patterns.

I don’t have a resolution yet. What I have is prayer, restraint, and the hope that waiting—when guided by faith—still counts as progress. I’m asking God for wisdom, for discernment, and for the courage to move only when it’s time.

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