It still surprises me how something as basic as food—something I always believed was essential for clear thinking—can be removed, and instead of irritability, I find calm. It goes against everything I assumed about hunger and mood. But I’m beginning to learn that fasting affects far more than the body; it reaches into the deeper parts of the spirit first.
If I were to fast simply to “try it out,” I doubt it would have the same effect. The calm seems tied to intention—the willingness to set aside something good in order to seek something better. When fasting becomes an offering, even a small one, something inside shifts. The noise lessens. The heart steadies. The spirit grows quiet enough to hear again.
There are biological explanations, of course—studies showing that fasting can influence cellular repair, hormones, and mental clarity. But the kind of fasting I’m doing doesn’t reach those thresholds. I’m not doing extended fasts or strict schedules. Mine is simple and unplanned: skipping breakfast and lunch on days when I feel overwhelmed or disconnected from God. It usually begins as a tug—a quiet sense that I need less distraction and more dependence.
Yet even in this small practice, the effects have been real. On the days I fast, my thoughts drift toward God without effort. I find myself praying more, reading Scripture more, and turning toward spiritual things with a hunger that runs deeper than the physical one I’m ignoring. It feels as though fasting empties just enough space inside me for God to fill it.
I don’t want fasting to become a performance or something I try to master. I want it to remain an act of surrender—letting go, slowing down, and remembering the One who actually holds all things together. And if nothing else, fasting has become a surprising way to hand over my anxiety and regain perspective. When everything feels out of control, choosing to fast reminds me that I’m not.
It reminds me that He is.