WELL

When the Well Runs Dry: Living with Uncertainty

There’s a rhythm I’ve come to trust over the years: give, listen, serve, repeat. It’s how I keep my mind clear, my heart open, and my life aligned. I spend much of my inner thought life focused on others, the calls at odd hours, the friends who need a steady voice in the middle of a hard moment, a client struggling with anxiety, or someone finding their footing after a major life change.

That kind of presence quiets the noise of self-pity and regret before it takes over, and reminds me that meaning is found not in self-absorption, but in connection.

But lately, the rhythm has changed.

Navigating the uncertainty of life. My mind, the same one that can guide others through chaos, starts whispering questions I can’t easily answer. What now? How long will this last? What happens if the safety net doesn’t hold?

It’s humbling.

I’ve always believed that the frequency of gratitude is the antidote to despair, but when the cupboards are bare, gratitude can feel like a hard prayer to whisper. Yet maybe that’s the point, that in the dry seasons, gratitude stops being a feeling and becomes a discipline. It’s no longer something that comes easily; it’s something we choose.

I remind myself: This too is service, learning to receive, learning to trust, learning to let others carry me for once.

The truth is, helping others is a form of spiritual wealth. But even the wealthiest soul can run low when the body is tired and the future feels uncertain. What I’ve learned, and keep learning, is that scarcity doesn’t mean failure. It means life is inviting us to practice faith without evidence, to believe in the unseen abundance that lives beyond our immediate circumstances.

Sometimes, we can’t fix the outer situation right away, but we can soften our inner stance toward it. I try to meet each day with the smallest gestures of hope: a walk outside, a call to a friend, a cup of fresh ground coffee, brewed slowly and intentionally. It’s in these ordinary moments that I remember who I am, not my bank balance, not my fears, but a man who has walked through fire and come out alive, awake, grateful, and still growing.

I am also reminded that worry doesn’t build anything. Love does. And love isn’t just a feeling, it’s an energy that expands when shared. When I give, I feel abundant. When I connect, I feel rich. When I let myself be human, I feel free.

So I turn the question around: instead of asking What will I lose?, I ask What might I learn?

Maybe I’m learning how to let go of my last illusion of control, the belief that I’m the provider of everything I need. Maybe I’m learning that the same grace that carried me through addiction, shame, and loss will also carry me through this. And maybe I’m learning that true wellness isn’t about how much I have, but how deeply I trust that I’m supported, even when the evidence says otherwise.

If you’re reading this and feeling a similar stretch, emotional, financial, or spiritual, remember: we’re not being punished; we’re being refined. These moments don’t come to destroy us; they come to deepen us. The universe has a way of emptying our hands before it fills them again, of slowing our steps so we can rediscover gratitude for the ground beneath our feet.

And when the well runs dry, that’s often when the clearest water begins to flow, not from the world outside, but from the quiet, unshakable wellspring within.

So today, I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep listening. I’ll keep trusting that service, even when it’s turned inward, is still sacred work.

Because even when the bank is empty, my heart isn’t … and that, I’ve learned, is where sustainable abundance truly begins.