“Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.” ~Martin Luther King Jr.
My grandmother passed away a few years ago after a long battle with cancer. Even as her health deteriorated, she never lost her spirit. She’d still get excited about whether the Pittsburgh Steelers might finally have a decent season after Ben Roethlisberger’s retirement. She’d debate the Pirates’ chances with the kind of passionate optimism that only comes from decades of loyal disappointment.
But what I remember most are the afternoons she’d spend napping in her favorite chair with my son curled up against her. He’d drift off clutching some random object, like a wooden spoon or random toy from my parent’s basement. She’d just smile and close her eyes too. Even when she was tired, even when the treatments were wearing her down, she found joy in those stolen moments.
In her final years, she lived with my parents, but she brought her faith with her.
Her rosary beads found new homes on nightstands and windowsills. Her worn Bible sat open on the end table, bookmarked with a picture of her husband. The little curio cabinet filled with angels followed her too, a portable shrine to stubborn hope. Wherever she was, the air around her carried that same indefinable quality that I later realized was simply peace.
My grandmother had the kind of faith that could part emotional storms with a single glance. She didn’t need to preach it. She lived it. You could feel her belief before you even stepped through the front door. She believed in prayer, in miracles, in second chances. In the Steelers. And in Diet Pepsi.
After she was gone, I expected to feel completely untethered. Instead, I discovered something surprising. Things seemed to hold together. The sadness was real and deep, but underneath it was something solid. A foundation I’d never realized she’d built in me.
My mother always said I “lived with my head in the clouds,” and it wasn’t until after Grandma passed that I understood where that came from. While I was raised in the Catholic church and spent years as an altar boy, my faith had always been fuzzier than hers. Less certain. More questions than answers.
But it was there, hidden under the surface, because of her. I’d been benefiting from her quiet influence in ways I never fully understood or appreciated until she was gone. Her faith hadn’t just surrounded me. It had somehow taken root in me, even when I wasn’t paying attention.
Learning to Recognize What Was Already There
The months after her death weren’t filled with the existential crisis I expected. Instead, I found myself noticing things. How I naturally looked for the good in difficult situations. How I held onto hope even when logic suggested otherwise. How I moved through the world with a kind of quiet optimism that I’d never really examined before.
I was still a professional overthinker, still a card-carrying worrier. But underneath all that mental noise was something steadier. Something that whispered, “This too shall pass,” even when I wasn’t consciously thinking it.
It took time to understand that this wasn’t something I needed to build from scratch. Grandma hadn’t just modeled faith for me; she’d been quietly cultivating it in me all along. Through her example, through her presence, through those countless afternoons when she’d choose hope over fear, even when the odds were stacked against her health and her beloved sports teams.
Discovering My Own Messy Version
What I came to realize was that my faith was never going to look like Grandma’s. Hers was rooted in tradition, in ritual, in the comfort of centuries-old prayers. Mine was more scattered, cobbled together from different sources and experiences.
My faith, I discovered, is held together with hope, a healthy dose of skepticism, and about six different kinds of sticky notes. It’s not the neat, organized kind. It’s more like a spiritual junk drawer full of useful things, but you’re never quite sure where anything is.
I believe in second chances and fresh starts. I believe in the power of afternoon sun to reset your entire day. I believe that kindness is contagious and that sometimes the universe sends you exactly what you need, even if it arrives late, confused, and covered in cat hair.
Some days, my faith is a whisper: “Maybe things will get better. Maybe I’m not alone. Maybe I can try again tomorrow.” Other days, it’s louder: “This is hard, but I can handle hard things. I’ve done it before.”
My faith doesn’t look like Grandma’s, but it carries her DNA. It’s messier, less certain, but it has the same stubborn core, a refusal to give up hope, even when hope seems foolish.
The Science of Belief
Here’s what I wish I’d known during those dark months: You don’t have to be religious to benefit from faith. Science shows that belief in something greater than yourself can be a powerful tool for mental and emotional well-being.
Faith literally reduces stress. Studies show that people who report a strong sense of meaning or spiritual belief have lower levels of cortisol, the hormone associated with stress. Translation? Faith helps your brain pump the brakes on panic.
It improves emotional regulation by activating the brain’s prefrontal cortex, which helps you pause before spiraling. It builds psychological resilience by reminding you that you’re not at the center of every catastrophe. Whether you believe in God, the universe, karma, or cosmic duct tape, faith acts as a buffer against hopelessness.
Acts of spiritual reflection can trigger the same brain regions involved in feelings of safety and joy. And faith often leads to rituals or conversations with others, building the connections that are crucial for well-being.
Here’s the kicker: You don’t have to get it right. Wobbly faith counts. Uncertain, whispered-in-a-closet faith is still valid. Half-hearted “Okay, Universe, I trust you… kinda” mutterings are welcome here.
The Power of Micro-Faith
Big transformations feel great in theory but hard in practice. That’s why I’ve learned to embrace what I call “micro-faith,” these small, digestible moments of intentional belief. Like appetizers for your spirit.
Today, try believing in something small:
- The possibility of a good cup of coffee
- The strength hiding inside your own weird little heart
- The fact that what you need might already be on its way
- The idea that this difficult season won’t last forever
- The chance that tomorrow might feel a little lighter
Faith doesn’t have to be grand or glowing. Sometimes it’s just showing up anyway, even when you’re not sure why.
What Grandma Taught Me
Years later, I realize Grandma didn’t just give me faith; she showed me how to live it. She taught me that faith isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about trusting that you’ll find your way, even in the dark.
She taught me that belief can be quiet and still be powerful. That faith isn’t a destination but a traveling companion. That sometimes the most profound act of faith is simply getting up and trying again.
Most importantly, she taught me that faith isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up. Showing up to your life, to your relationships, to your own healing, even when you feel completely unprepared.
I carry pieces of her faith with me now, mixed in with my own messy, imperfect beliefs. Some days I feel like I’m floating through life with my head in the clouds. But thanks to Grandma, and a whole lot of trial and error, I’ve learned to float up here without getting totally fried by the sun.
If your faith feels fractured, fuzzy, or faint, you’re not doing it wrong. You’re just human. Faith isn’t a finish line. It’s a floating device. It won’t always steer you straight, but it might keep you above water long enough to find the shore.
So go ahead and believe in something today. Even if it’s just the idea that the clouds will eventually clear… and the coffee won’t taste burnt this time.
About Jason Hall
Jason Hall is a writer, mental wellness advocate, and professional overthinker who believes in the power of imperfect faith, a well-timed joke, and the occasional snack-fueled epiphany. He writes about finding light in the messy middle of life and the small, stubborn joys that help us float through. You can find him at chilltheduckout.com, where he shares stories about stress, hope, growth, and how to chill the duck out one microjoy at a time.
