Are you there God, it’s me —
the seeker, the feeler, the one who has spent a lifetime listening to the quiet spaces in between.

I didn’t grow up with the kind of faith that comes with clear definitions or confident declarations. I grew up with sensations. A tug in the chest. A warmth behind the ribs. A knowing that didn’t have a name, the way animals know when the weather is about to change. I was an empath long before I had the language for it, carrying other people’s sorrows like stray feathers caught in my pockets.

And all along, even when I couldn’t articulate it, I felt the presence of something gentle and vast. Something like Love, but more mature. Something like God, but freer.

I didn’t know how to pray, so I mostly whispered questions into the dark and hoped someone was listening.

Lately, the world feels like a radio stuck between stations — static, sharp, unpredictable. The pace has quickened. The stakes feel higher. People are searching for anchors, for breath, for meaning in a time that seems determined to spin us loose.

But something else is happening too.
Something quieter.
Something unexpected.

Jesus, of all figures, seems to be walking back into the collective conversation — not the rigid, rule-heavy Jesus some of us met in childhood, but the one that shows up in moments of grace, or synchronicity, or startling peace. The one people encounter in dreams, or in heartbreak, or in the sudden warmth that arrives when they finally let themselves cry.

It’s as if, in the chaos, a door has cracked open.
And people are noticing the light coming through.

For those of us who have always been seekers, this moment feels both familiar and new. Familiar, because we’ve spent our lives sensing that the spiritual world is close. New, because the veil seems thinner than ever — almost as if the divine has stepped a little closer, clearing its throat, asking if we’re ready to pay attention.

I don’t think this is about religion.
I think it’s about resonance.

The soul recognizes truth long before the mind agrees to it.
The body softens before the words make sense.
Something inside us remembers what peace feels like.

And if we’re honest, many of us are anxious. Exhausted. Overstimulated. Carrying more than one human nervous system should reasonably carry. And in that exhaustion, we’re reaching for what’s real. We’re reaching for what’s steady. We’re reaching for what reminds us that we’re not meant to hold the full weight of the world in our hands.

Spiritual connection — whatever shape it takes — quiets the panic.
It slows the breath.
It says, “You are not alone in this.”

Maybe that’s why the seekers are rising.
Maybe that’s why the empaths are waking up.
Maybe that’s why Jesus feels like he’s stepping through the noise, meeting people where they are — not in doctrine, but in directness.

I don’t pretend to have the neat answers. I’m not sure seekers ever do. Our job isn’t to define God; our job is to stay open enough to notice when God brushes past.

But I do know this:

When the world grows louder, the soul grows more insistent.
When anxiety peaks, so does longing.
And when we finally whisper, “Are you there God?”
something inside us already knows the answer.

If you’re feeling that same tug — the soft call toward something holy, something grounding, something unexpectedly intimate — you’re not imagining it.

You’re not alone.
You’re simply listening.

And maybe, just maybe, something is whispering back.