Intro

Hey friends, Rob here—and today’s episode is one I’ve been living… and re-living… and trying really hard not to spiral into again as we speak.

You know those days where you just lose track of time, drop a few balls, and suddenly feel like you're disappointing everyone—including yourself? Yeah, me too. Except for me, it’s not just a bad day—it’s like stepping onto a moving walkway straight into the shame cave.

Here’s what it looks like for me:

Lost control of time → overloaded → disappointing others → disengagement → media consumption → anger → shame → isolation.

A fun little loop! Like a Six Flags ride built by your least supportive inner voice.

But seriously—this is real. And while I can laugh at it now, there’ve been times when this pattern cost me a lot—my peace, my relationships, and my connection with God.

So today, I want to name that spiral, unpack why we end up there, and talk about what it takes to step off the ride. And we’re not just going to talk productivity hacks or habit stacking. We’re going deeper—into Scripture, into your spirit, and into what Jesus offers when you're stuck in shame and feel like checking out.

Let’s dive in.

1. Naming the Spiral

(Scripture: Romans 7:15–25)

Let’s just get this out of the way: I didn’t choose this spiral. I stumbled into it the way most people find themselves at a Denny’s at 2 a.m.—a series of small, not-great decisions followed by a deep sense of regret and a strange pancake hangover.

Here’s how it shows up in my life:

It usually starts with something simple—like losing track of time. Maybe I linger too long in my inbox, or spend just “a few extra minutes” on a project that turns into a couple hours. Suddenly, I’m behind on everything else. The day’s moving without me. Cue the pressure.

From there, it’s a short hop to feeling overloaded. My to-do list looks like it’s been doing CrossFit. Every red notification dot on my phone starts screaming at me. The laundry mocks me. Dinner still needs to be figured out. I’m trying to be a good husband, a present dad, a capable employee, and a semi-decent human. But I’m also trying not to cry in the pantry.

Then comes the tipping point: disappointing someone. And it doesn’t even have to be a big disappointment. Just a missed text. A delayed reply. A forgotten task. Or worse—feeling like I’ve disappointed myself. That’s when the shame gremlins start murmuring in the background. “Here we go again.”

So what do I do? I disengage. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually. I check out—slouch back from my relationships and responsibilities. I’m not even trying to disappear. I just want to numb for a bit.

And in that fog, I almost always turn to some form of passive consumption—usually digital. YouTube. Reddit. Podcasts I’m not even paying attention to. I’m not watching for fun—I’m watching to not feel. It’s the soul equivalent of eating a stale cracker just to keep from hearing your own stomach.

But guess what? The media doesn’t actually make it better. (Plot twist, I know.) It just postpones the emotional invoice. Eventually, that detachment leads to frustration. I start getting irritable. Snappy. Short. My fuse is about two Instagram reels long.

Then shame hits like a wave. I replay all the moments I could’ve done things differently—gotten up earlier, worked harder, not wasted time, answered that email, responded with grace. I become my own harshest critic. And the lie that settles in is this: “You’re not just failing—you are a failure.”

From there, isolation just feels… inevitable. I pull back even more. I don’t reach out. I don’t confess. I don’t pray. I ghost community, God, and even my own heart. It's quiet—but not peaceful. It’s numb—but not restful.

And that, my friends, is The Spiral.

Maybe yours has different steps, but I’m guessing it follows a similar loop:

1. Something gets off track—your time, your energy, your expectations.
2. You feel pressure or guilt.
3. You retreat or distract yourself.
4. You spiral into negative thinking and shame.
5. You disconnect—from God, from people, even from your true self.

Paul gets this. In Romans 7:15, he writes:

“I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.”

If Paul were alive today, he might’ve added: “I wanted to read the Bible, but I watched conspiracy theory videos about pigeons instead. Who will save me from this body of sin and endless scrolling?”

And let’s pause here for a second—because this verse is usually read with a kind of heavy theological weight, but it’s also just incredibly human.

It’s not just sin Paul is describing. It’s the tension between intention and action. It’s that feeling of watching yourself make choices you know will lead to discouragement… and somehow making them anyway.

He goes on:

“So I find this law at work: Although I want to do good, evil is right there with me… What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death? Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!”

Yes. That part. The spiral is real—but so is the Savior.

And here’s where it starts to change:

You can’t heal what you won’t name.

You can’t grow from what you won’t acknowledge.

And you certainly can’t defeat something if you don’t realize you’re battling it in the first place.

So let me ask:

👉 What does your spiral look like?

👉 What’s your go-to method of escape?

👉 What’s your first red flag that you’re drifting?

This is not about guilt. It’s about recognition. Because when you name the cycle, you start to take back the power it’s had over you.

And guess what? You’re not crazy. You’re not the only one. And you’re definitely not beyond redemption.

This spiral wants you to believe you’re stuck forever. That this is just “how you are.” But the truth is, naming it is the first act of rebellion. It’s the first step toward healing.

So name it. Out loud. Write it down. Tell a trusted friend. Or tell the Lord—He already knows, and He’s not shocked or mad. He’s just waiting at the edge of your spiral, arms wide open.

2. Understanding the Triggers

(Scripture: 1 Peter 5:8)

So now that we’ve named the spiral—and possibly winced a little at how accurate it was—let’s talk about what starts it. Because this whole thing doesn’t just appear out of nowhere like a raccoon in your kitchen at 2 a.m. (That’s a real story for another time.)

No, the spiral starts with a trigger. And not the kind you hear about in overly dramatic Instagram reels. I’m talking about those small moments, micro-decisions, and emotional shifts that crack the door open.

For me, it almost always begins with losing control of my time.

It’s sneaky. It doesn’t usually feel like a crisis. It feels like, “Oh, I’ll just knock out this one thing real quick.” You know the drill. You start your day with grand plans—maybe a little Bible reading, a focused block of work, time to breathe and be human. And then boom—your inbox explodes, your kid spills syrup on the cat, and the “one quick task” turns into a two-hour rabbit hole of fixing something that wasn’t even on your list.

Now you’re behind. So you hustle. You skip the margin. You tell yourself you’ll catch up later. And the irony is: the more you try to catch up, the more time seems to slip through your fingers. You’re not managing time anymore—you’re chasing it.

But here’s the thing: time isn’t just about scheduling. It’s about attention. And when we lose track of time, we usually lose track of something deeper—our sense of presence.

That’s when I start slipping into overload.

You know the feeling. Every little thing starts to feel like too much. A simple decision—like whether to eat leftovers or make a sandwich—suddenly feels like a multiple-choice exam from a class you didn’t attend. And when one small thing goes wrong (like the printer refusing to connect again for reasons unknown to science or God), you feel like the whole system is about to collapse.

In that state, I’m fragile. Not in the “help me, I’m delicate” way. More like a vending machine teetering on a single bolt—one wrong bump and snacks everywhere.

And when I’m overloaded, guess what happens next? I start letting people down. Missing meetings, replying late, getting short with people I care about. I start disappointing others—and sometimes, worse—I disappoint myself.

That’s a huge trigger for me. That feeling of “I should’ve done better. I should’ve been more.” It doesn’t hit like a freight train—it’s more like a slow leak in your tire. At first, you don’t even notice it. But suddenly, you’re dragging, exhausted, and wondering why everything feels harder.

So what’s the natural response? Disengagement.

I emotionally shut down. I start to withdraw—not out of spite, but because I’m tired. Spiritually, mentally, even physically. I go into survival mode. I tell myself, “I just need a break.” And to be fair, sometimes I do need a break.

But what I usually reach for isn’t rest. It’s distraction.

Enter the phone. The TV. The endless scroll. I don't even enjoy it—it's just the easiest way to not feel anything. I'm not trying to tune into a show. I'm trying to tune out of my life.

Now let’s pause here and zoom out. Because what I’ve just described is a process that almost always happens in moments when we’re vulnerable. Tired. Discouraged. Overloaded. Emotionally stretched.

And guess who loves to show up in those moments?

The enemy.

1 Peter 5:8 says:

“Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.”

Now that verse used to sound a little dramatic to me—like it belonged more in a heavy metal music video than my daily life. But the older I get, the more I see how ordinary the devouring can look.

It doesn’t always come in the form of temptation to do something blatantly evil. Sometimes, it’s just a slow erosion of your soul’s attention. The enemy knows he doesn’t have to destroy you in one blow—he just has to keep you numbing instead of healing, isolating instead of connecting, scrolling instead of seeking.

The enemy is subtle. He doesn’t ring the doorbell wearing a red jumpsuit. He waits until you’re too tired to fight back, then whispers:

“You’re failing again.”“Just disappear for a while.”“Don’t let them see you like this.”

And the spiral begins again.

So here’s the million-dollar question: What are your triggers?

• Is it overcommitment?
• Is it being stretched too thin emotionally?
• Is it loneliness?
• Is it perfectionism?
• Is it unresolved disappointment?

Can you name what makes you vulnerable to the spiral?

Because here’s the deal: the earlier you recognize the pattern, the easier it is to interrupt it. Catching it in Step 2 is a lot easier than trying to dig yourself out at Step 7 when shame has you by the throat.

Try this—next time you feel that weight starting to settle on your chest, just ask:

“What’s actually going on under the surface right now?”

Nine times out of ten, you’ll find the spiral’s first few steps have already started. And that’s not a moment to panic—it’s a moment to pause. To breathe. To invite God back into your present. Because remember: the enemy prowls when you’re distracted. But God is present when you’re aware.

And awareness is the beginning of freedom.

3. What Shame Wants You to Believe

(Scripture: Psalm 32)

Let’s talk about the emotional glue that holds the spiral together: shame.

Shame is like the pushy friend you didn’t invite to the party but who somehow shows up anyway, starts judging your snack choices, and insists on staying until you cry.

Now, to be clear—shame is not the same as guilt. Guilt says, “I did something wrong.” Shame says, “I am something wrong.” And if you’ve ever tried to climb out of that pit, you know how slippery the walls are.

Here’s how shame shows up in my spiral.

After I’ve checked out emotionally… after I’ve consumed way too much media and somehow ended up watching conspiracy videos about how birds aren’t real… after I’ve gotten snappy with people I love or flaked on something important—that’s when shame saunters in like:

“Well, well, well… look who did it again.”

And it’s never just about this time. Shame brings receipts. All your past failures. All the ways you said, “I’ll do better next time.” All the good intentions that turned into nothing. It’s like the worst version of Spotify Wrapped:

• “Your top sin this year was procrastination!”
• “You replayed emotional withdrawal 142 times!”
• “Your number one mood was: spiritually distant.”

And it plays on loop.

What’s especially brutal is how convincing shame can be. It sounds like your voice. It knows your history. It hits right where you’re most vulnerable. It whispers:

• “You’re a disappointment.”
• “People are tired of you.”
• “This is just who you are now.”
• “You’re never going to change.”

That’s not conviction. That’s condemnation. And it doesn’t come from God.

Let me say that again for the people in the back (or the ones listening while doing dishes): God does not speak in shame.

God convicts—yes. But conviction is specific and hopeful. Shame is vague and suffocating. Conviction says, “Let’s deal with this so we can move forward.” Shame says, “You’ll never get past this, so why even try?”

And you know what shame’s favorite trick is? Isolation.

When you’re buried in shame, the last thing you want to do is reach out. You don’t want to be seen. You don’t want to explain yourself. You certainly don’t want to confess that you’ve spiraled again.

So you hide.

Sometimes physically—you ghost people, skip church, stop replying.

Sometimes emotionally—you’re there, but you’re checked out.

Sometimes spiritually—you avoid prayer, Scripture, even worship.

You feel unworthy. You feel like a fraud. And you quietly convince yourself that you’re the only one who deals with this. Everyone else seems to be managing life like responsible adults with calendars and matching socks and reasonable emotional boundaries.

But listen: shame lies. And it lies loudest when you're silent.

That’s why Psalm 32 is so powerful. David writes:

“When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long… For day and night your hand was heavy on me; my strength was sapped…Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity… and you forgave the guilt of my sin.”

David had every reason to spiral. He had actual failures on a national scale. But what broke the cycle wasn’t perfection—it was confession.

When he stayed silent, shame had power. But when he opened his mouth, grace rushed in.

Shame thrives in the dark. But it shrivels in the light.

So let me ask:

• What have you been keeping silent about?
• What’s the thing you’ve convinced yourself disqualifies you from connection?
• Who do you need to be honest with—God, a friend, yourself?

You might be thinking, “Okay, sure, but I’ve messed up a lot.”

And to that, I lovingly say: get in line.

The gospel is not for people who get it right. It’s for people who admit they didn’t.

This is why confession is such a gift—not a punishment. It’s not God making you grovel. It’s God inviting you into freedom. It’s a door swinging open.

And yes, it can feel scary to say it out loud. But I promise—it’s better than staying stuck. Tell someone. A spouse. A mentor. A trusted friend. Or start with Jesus. You don’t have to impress Him. He already knows. He’s not shaking His head. He’s holding out His hand.

And once you start letting the light in, shame loses its grip.

Because here’s the truth: You are not your worst day. You are not your spiral. You are not defined by your mistakes. You are loved, known, and redeemable. Not someday—today.

So when shame comes knocking, you don’t have to answer the door. You can say:

“Thanks, but I already talked to Jesus about it—and He says I’m free.”

4. Breaking the Cycle

(Scripture: Galatians 5:1)

Okay—so we’ve named the spiral. We’ve explored the triggers. We’ve called out shame for the manipulative weasel it is.

Now what?

If you’re like me, this is the moment where the internal monologue kicks in:

“Cool cool cool, thanks Rob. Very helpful reflection. But how do I actually stop this thing from happening every. single. time?”

Good question. And let me start by saying—this isn’t about perfection. You will spiral again. I will too. (I probably did somewhere between sections 2 and 3 of this script, if we’re being honest.)

But we can learn to interrupt the cycle. Not necessarily by doing something heroic. Sometimes just by doing something small—but intentional.

I like to think of it this way:

You don’t need to stop the train with your bare hands.

You just need to pull the emergency brake before it builds too much momentum.

That starts with what I call a pattern disruptor.

What’s a Pattern Disruptor?

It’s anything that breaks your autopilot behavior and turns your heart back toward awareness, presence, and God.

And honestly, some of mine are so small, they might sound dumb:

• I get up and go outside—even if it’s just to stand on the porch and feel actual air on my face.
• I say, out loud, “Jesus, I feel the spiral starting. Help me interrupt it.”
• I leave my phone in another room and sit in silence for 3 minutes. (Yes, that’s terrifying. Yes, it works.)
• I text someone—not to dump everything—but just to say, “Hey, pray for me. I’m kind of spiraling right now.”

None of these are revolutionary. But that’s the point. The goal isn’t to heroically claw your way to emotional wholeness—it’s to interrupt the shame autopilot long enough to make a different choice.

Scripture is full of these kinds of resets.

In Galatians 5:1, Paul writes:

“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.”

That “yoke of slavery” isn’t just sin—it’s also shame. It’s fear. It’s that voice that says, “You always do this, so don’t even try something different.”

But Paul is reminding us: Freedom isn’t just available—it’s already been purchased. Your job isn’t to earn it. Your job is to return to it.

Let me say that again for anyone spiraling while folding laundry:

Your job is not to earn freedom. Your job is to return to it.

How?

Let’s talk real strategies.

1. Name It Early

The earlier you identify the spiral, the easier it is to exit. Don’t wait until you’re three hours into YouTube shorts and have forgotten your middle name. As soon as you notice:

• “I’m avoiding.”
• “I feel overloaded.”
• “I want to disappear.”

Call it what it is. Even saying, “I’m spiraling,” out loud is powerful.

2. Interrupt with Intention

Do something different—even if it’s tiny. Get up and stretch. Take a walk. Pray a one-sentence prayer. Open the Psalms and read just a few verses.

And when you feel like you don’t want to? That’s usually when you need to most.

3. Reconnect to the Source

Remember: distraction is often disconnection in disguise. And our souls are never satisfied by scrolling—they're hungry for presence. Real presence. With God. With people. With yourself.

When I’m spiraling, I sometimes pray:

“Jesus, I feel empty. Not dramatic empty—just slowly drained. Help me come back to You before I try to fix it on my own.”

No fancy words. No formula. Just honesty.

And somehow, that begins to untangle the knots.

4. Replace What’s Easy with What’s Lasting

It’s tempting to reach for what numbs: food, entertainment, noise. But those are short-term anesthetics. They don’t heal—they just pause the pain.

So ask yourself:

• What would actually restore me right now?
• What would actually move me closer to God instead of deeper into escape?

Sometimes, restoration looks like a nap. Other times, it’s putting on worship music. Or calling a friend. Or opening a journal and just letting it out.

It doesn’t have to be grand. It just has to be real.

5. Practice Before the Spiral Starts

Here’s a sneaky truth: the best time to prepare for a spiral is before you’re in one.

Build in small rhythms of rest, reflection, and reconnection. They become anchors you can grab onto when the waves hit.

Even five minutes of daily stillness with God can retrain your spirit to reach for Him first when things fall apart.

And above all—remember this: You are not a machine. You are a person. With limits. And that’s not a flaw—that’s part of the design.

Breaking the cycle isn’t about becoming invincible. It’s about becoming responsive. Sensitive to what’s going on in your soul, and open to the Spirit’s gentle whisper: “Come back. I’m still here.”

The spiral doesn’t need you to be stronger. It needs you to be softer—to God, to yourself, to the people around you.

So next time you feel the fog roll in, don’t wait to hit bottom. Pull the brake. Say the prayer. Go outside. Open the Word. Send the text. Eat a banana. Whatever it takes to remind your soul that this is not the end of the story.

You are not stuck. You are interruptible. And God is really, really good at restoring what feels broken.

5. Rewriting the Story

(Scripture: Luke 15:11–32)

We’ve come a long way in this episode. We’ve named the spiral, traced the triggers, dragged shame into the light, and talked about how to interrupt the cycle before it swallows you whole.

But now I want to zoom out. Because you’re not just here to stop spiraling.

You’re here to rewrite the story.

You see, the spiral is a loop. It keeps you cycling through the same scenes with different outfits. New day, same shame. New distraction, same disconnection. But God is not in the business of loops—He’s in the business of resurrection.

And that means your story doesn’t have to end where it always has.

There’s this parable you’ve probably heard—the one about the prodigal son. Maybe you even heard it in Sunday school with flannelgraph sheep and a way-too-happy older brother.

But this story is not just a warning about rebellion. It’s a map out of the spiral.

The prodigal son doesn’t spiral because of bad time management or poor inbox hygiene—he spirals because he chooses disconnection. He grabs his inheritance, walks away from his father’s presence, and goes all-in on distraction. And at first, it works. He parties. He fills the silence. He numbs out.

But eventually… the famine hits. And he’s alone. Broke. Starving. Stuck.

Sound familiar?

And here’s what gets me: even in that moment, when he’s feeding pigs and fantasizing about the slop they’re eating—he doesn’t return because he believes in grace. He returns because he’s desperate.

He rehearses a speech. He plans to grovel. He’s thinking, “Maybe my dad will let me be a servant. Maybe I can pay this off. Maybe I can crawl back.”

But Luke 15:20 says this:

“While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.”

Did you catch that?

• The father saw him—which means he was looking.
• He was filled with compassion—not disappointment.
• He ran—which, culturally, was totally undignified for a grown man in that era.
• He embraced. He kissed. He celebrated.

No lectures. No shame spiral. No “I told you so.” Just grace.

That’s the part of the story we miss when we’re spiraling. We assume God is pacing on the porch, arms crossed, waiting for us to explain ourselves. But He’s actually sprinting toward us the second we turn back—before the apology even leaves our lips.

And here’s where everything changes:

The son came home expecting to be a servant. But the father never stopped seeing him as a son.

That’s what shame wants you to forget.

Shame says: “You’ve ruined your status.”

Grace says: “You’ve never lost your identity.”

Shame says: “You’re only valuable if you get it right.”

Grace says: “You’re deeply loved even when you get it wrong.”

Shame wants to put you in a loop. Grace wants to write a new chapter.

So let me ask you—what story have you been telling yourself?

• That you’ll never change?
• That you’re too much?
• That you’re not enough?
• That if people really knew what you were dealing with, they’d back away?

What if you flipped that narrative?

What if, instead of believing the spiral was inevitable, you believed God is already writing something new?

What if this wasn’t just another breakdown moment—but a breakthrough one?

You don’t need to come back perfect. You just need to come back.

And here’s a little secret from someone who’s been there more times than I’d like to admit: God doesn’t need your spiral to make sense before He redeems it. He just needs your “yes” to coming home.

Even limping home counts.

Even crawling home counts.

Even ugly-cry, sweatpants, haven’t-prayed-in-weeks home counts.

Because the Father's love isn’t measured by your momentum—it’s measured by your belonging.

Let me give you one last picture.

Imagine this:

You’re walking back down the path you thought you burned. Your pockets are empty. Your head is down. You're not even sure if the Father will recognize you after the mess you've made.

But before you even reach the gate, you see Him.

Running.

Laughing.

Tears in His eyes.

And He’s shouting, “You came home! That’s all I needed.”

He wraps you up. He calls for celebration. And He whispers in your ear,

“You are still mine.”

That’s not just a story. That’s your reality—if you’re willing to believe it.

So today, maybe it’s time to stop rehearsing the shame speech and start receiving the grace that’s already running toward you.

You’re not stuck.

You’re seen.

You’re wanted.

And with Jesus, the spiral doesn’t get the last word.

Outro

Thanks for sticking with me through this one.

I know it wasn’t the lightest of topics—we’ve walked through spirals, shame, overthinking, under-functioning, and probably hit a little too close to home for comfort. But here’s the good news: the spiral doesn’t have to own your story. Not anymore.

Maybe this week you’ll still find yourself slipping. Maybe you’ll catch yourself mid-scroll, mid-sigh, mid-spaghetti-stained hoodie wondering, “How did I end up here again?” But this time, I hope you remember the Father's face running toward you. I hope you remember that interruption is holy. That grace is immediate. That returning is enough.

You’re not the only one. You’re not broken beyond repair. And you’re not on your own.

God doesn’t wait at the end of the spiral to evaluate you—He meets you right in the middle of it to walk you out. Step by step. Breath by breath. With compassion, not condemnation.

So name your spiral.

Learn your triggers.

Call out shame for what it is.

Break the cycle with grace, not grit.

And let God rewrite the story you thought was stuck on repeat.

If this episode helped you, share it with someone who might be in the same loop. Let’s start some honest conversations that invite each other back to wholeness.

And as always…

Small ripples can make a big impact—go make yours.