Fighting Old Habits, Old Thoughts

Fighting Old Habits, Old Thoughts some habits don’t show up wearing red flags. They sneak in looking like survival. Like comfort. Like “I’m just tired today.”

I used to think I was managing stress.
But really, I was just numbing. Avoiding.
Patching bullet holes with Band-Aids.

Self-comforting turned into overthinking, isolating, and chasing peace in temporary things.
Self-hating showed up in the mirror and in the silence—whispers like “you’ll never change” or “you’re too much for anyone.”
And self-sabotage? That one’s sneaky. It looks like procrastination. Like “maybe tomorrow.” Like quitting the moment something good starts to happen.

It’s wild how easy it is to betray yourself when you’ve spent years thinking you’re not worth protecting.

But I’m learning. Slowly. Sometimes painfully. These habits didn’t start overnight—and they’re not gonna die without a fight.

⸻

I’ll have weeks where I’m locked in—reading my Bible, saving money, staying active, producing my best work. It feels like I’m finally walking in rhythm with what God has for me.

But then all it takes is one slip… and suddenly I’m spiraling. Right back into that familiar void—full of self-hate, anger, and shame.

It usually starts the same way. A thought creeps in:
“She was never happy with you, bro.”
“God took her because you weren’t good enough.”
“She forgot about you before she said goodbye.”

Here’s the thing about those thoughts—they’re outdated. But damn, they still hit hard. Quick to knock me to my knees.

And yeah, maybe you can’t blame a lover boy for loving too hard. But those thoughts don’t stop with her. They dig deeper. Past the breakups. Past the goodbyes.
They drag me straight to the roots—childhood stuff I never unpacked, buried under years of “be a man” and “suck it up.”

It always ends the same: me, back in my Bible, asking God where I went wrong… and hearing Him gently say, “You didn’t. You’re just healing.”

It always seems like the enemy waits for the low moments—the tired nights, the quiet hours, the in-between days. That’s when Satan starts doing what he does best: twisting the past.

He doesn’t need new material.
He just grabs the old stuff—failed relationships, buried trauma, fears I didn’t even know still lived in me—and uses them like a playlist set to repeat.

At first, the thoughts come soft. Small. Easy to toss aside.
But the second I try to ignore them, they bounce back heavier—like some spiritual weight I can’t shake.
Over and over, louder and sharper, until it’s not just my voice in my head… it’s an echo chamber of every voice that ever told me I wasn’t enough.

“You’re the problem.”
“You’ll never change.”
“She moved on because you’re broken.”
“God’s disappointed in you.”

And the scariest part?
Sometimes they sound like truth.
Familiar. Comfortable even. Like they belong.

But they don’t.

I’ve learned over the years that even when I start to walk away—even when I don’t notice it—Jesus is still there. And now? I run back faster. The darkness may get loud, but it never drowns out the light.

The hardest part about healing—about real change—is that it feels like boarding a jet to a destination you’ve never been.
No GPS. No map. Just motion.
And the scary part?
You don’t even know if you’ll like the version of you that’s waiting at the end of the runway.

That was my logic at first.

When I started getting better—dropping old habits, stepping into something new—I built this image of who I thought I was becoming. A strong, sturdy man.
Disciplined. Focused. Unshakable.

But somewhere in the fog of it all, I realized something:
That man I created in my head?
He was still hollow. Still fragile.
Because he lacked a real foundation.

That’s when it hit me—strength without Christ is just ego wearing armor.
And ego cracks under pressure.

I’ve always been capable of carrying a lot. I’ve always been resilient. But without direction, all I was doing was surviving.
With Christ, I’m not just surviving—I’m walking with purpose.
And with Him, there’s only one direction worth looking: up.

Every time I think I’m carrying this unbearable cross—when the fight feels like it’s too much—I look up…
and remember I haven’t been carrying it at all.
I just forgot I laid it down the moment I surrendered.

🌱 The Progress I Can See

The biggest change I’ve noticed in myself?

My bounce back time.
I don’t spiral for days like I used to. I don’t sit in the dark hoping it’ll turn into light.
Now, I run back to what I know works: the Bible.

No matter what I’m facing, it brings me back to a baseline of peace—a place quiet enough to hear the voice of God.
I used to look everywhere but the Bible for answers.
Sermons. Podcasts. Instagram reels of my favorite Christian influencer—hoping they’d say something that would snap me out of it.

But they can’t save me.
Only Jesus can.
And I meet Him in His Word.

If you told the old me that one day I’d rely on Scripture like oxygen—I would’ve laughed you off. I used to reject the Bible at all costs.
Now? It’s my reset button. My anchor.

And every time I come to a crossroads—another moment I used to fumble—I notice something:
I handle it a little better.
A little calmer.
A little more like someone who knows they’re loved.

That’s the kind of growth that doesn’t go viral…
but it’s the kind that saves lives.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering:
“Am I faithful… or just plain stubborn?”
(If you know what song that’s from, you’re my kind of people.)

It feels like God keeps giving me the same test—just with slightly different answers and deeper context every time. And honestly? That’s where I’ve started to see His handiwork.

I’ve realized how unique we all are.
How my struggles aren’t one-size-fits-all.
How I can handle a problem totally differently than my buddy, and yet—if we both keep God at the center—we somehow arrive at the same truth.

He’s shown me His reliability.
His patience.
His wild, unwavering love—deeper than anything I’ve ever felt or tried to give.

And as I’ve matured in my faith, something else shifted:
My definition of surrender.

I used to think surrender meant falling to my knees, begging for forgiveness like a guilty kid caught in the act.
But God’s been showing me that real surrender isn’t just confession. It’s trust.
It’s letting go of the wheel—even when I think I know the way.

These days? Whether things are good or falling apart—I’m in praise mode.
I give it over to Him because I know He’s got the plan.
And my only job… is to listen.

I don’t have all the answers. Still mess up. Still spiral. Still forget to surrender until I hit the wall.
But God’s been faithful. Every time.
So I’ll leave you with this:
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18
Hold on. He’s closer than you think.