Define Free?
What are we really searching for? Most of us don’t start out searching for truth. We start by searching for something that *feels good*. For a long time, that was true for me. I lived for pleasure, excitement, satisfaction—whatever brought joy in the moment. I didn’t think much about meaning or purpose. I wasn’t asking *why* I was here. I was just trying to enjoy life while it lasted. But over time, that stopped being enough. At some point—sooner for some, later for others—we begin to ask different questions. *What am I really looking for?* *Why am I here?* *What would actually make my life feel whole?* Most people don’t ask those questions because they’re thinking about God. They ask them because something feels missing. Because comfort, success, pleasure, or distraction no longer carry the weight they once did. Underneath all of those questions is a deeper one: *What would actually satisfy me—if I’m honest?* That’s where the journey begins. Not with answers, but with learning how to seek. I started asking those questions more than twenty years ago, and I never stopped. I listened. I tested what people said. I learned to recognize the difference between opinion and evidence, between confidence and truth. I learned that this world is full of voices—many sincere, many misleading—and that finding what is true takes time, patience, and discernment. That process can feel overwhelming. Many people give up because sorting through it all feels like too much. I didn’t. I kept pressing in—not because I was special, but because the questions mattered too much to abandon. Over time, a pattern began to form. Truth has a way of pointing to reality. It fits together. It holds weight across different areas of life instead of collapsing under scrutiny. And as that picture came into focus, so did something else. What we’re really searching for isn’t just happiness or purpose. We’re searching for **freedom**. But here’s the problem: most of us have never stopped to ask what *freedom actually is*. We say we want it—but we rarely define it. And if we don’t know what freedom truly means, we’ll spend our lives chasing substitutes that never quite deliver. That’s why this journey starts here. Not with answers handed to you, but with an honest question: **How do you define free—right now?** Because until we can name what we’re actually aiming for, we’ll always feel scattered. You can’t reach something you can’t define. But once freedom is defined truthfully and honestly, it becomes something you can move toward—step by step. That’s what this journey is about.
Why does comfort rarely bring rest? We live in a culture that tells us happiness should be our highest goal. *Do what makes you happy. Go where you want. Buy what you want. Be who you want to be.* But we all know the reality is more complicated than that. We’re told that freedom comes later—after the work is done. Get the job. Build the business. Earn more. Invest better. Produce more. *Then* you can rest. *Then* you can enjoy life. What happens instead is that we get caught in a system of constant doing. A system built around pursuing comfort, pleasure, and desire—while demanding more and more of us just to stay afloat inside it. When we finally get what we’ve been working for, the joy it brings is real—but brief. The experience fades. The excitement wears off. And over time, something unsettling becomes clear: the amount of effort, stress, and energy we invest far outweighs the satisfaction we receive in return. Early in life, we don’t notice this as much. We spend freely—time, energy, money—chasing happiness without asking deeper questions. But as responsibilities grow, the weight increases. Eventually, many people feel trapped. Like they’re caught in a net they can’t escape. What makes it harder is that we see others who seem free—people who appear to live outside the system. They travel. They buy. They experience. They look happy. And yet, we’ve all heard the stories of wealthy, successful people still struggling with emptiness, anxiety, and depression. That tension tells us something important. Comfort rarely brings rest because it was never meant to carry that weight. The desire for joy isn’t wrong. The desire for satisfaction isn’t wrong. Those longings are deeply human. But they’ve been misplaced. We’ve been taught to aim them at a system that can only offer temporary relief, not lasting rest. What we’re actually searching for is a joy that doesn’t fade—a satisfaction that remains even when circumstances change. And that kind of joy doesn’t come from having more options or more experiences. It comes from something deeper. True freedom isn’t the ability to do whatever we want. It’s the ability *not* to—and to be at peace with that choice. When joy comes from a deeper place, comfort becomes secondary. Possessions, travel, and experiences stop being the source of happiness and become additions to it. Rest becomes possible—not because life is easy, but because the soul is no longer striving for what this world can’t give. That’s why comfort so often fails us. It promises rest but can’t deliver it. And recognizing that is often the first step toward discovering what real freedom actually is.
Why striving never ends? Striving never ends because the system we live in trains us to believe that happiness is always one more thing away. One more purchase. One more upgrade. One more experience. One more trip. One more milestone. One more “once I get there, then I’ll finally feel at rest.” I know that pattern because I lived it. I used to be deeply materialistic—boxes showing up at the house constantly, chasing the next thing, the next improvement, the next reward. And the strange part is this: it wasn’t the thing itself that carried the power. The satisfaction faded quickly. What kept me moving wasn’t what I owned—it was the pursuit. The chase. The feeling that the next thing might finally be enough. The same thing happened with travel. The trips were real. The beauty was real. The happiness was real. But even in those moments I often carried a quiet anxiety—because I knew I was going back. Back to the pressure. Back to the structure that made those moments possible. Back to months of effort for a week of escape. Sometimes even back to debt created by the escape itself. From the outside, it can look like freedom—nice homes, nice cars, constant travel. But most people never see what it costs to hold it all together. The striving. The worry. The sleeplessness. The fear of losing what you’ve built. That isn’t freedom. That’s restraint. It’s a different kind of prison—one that rewards you just enough to keep you chasing while it quietly drains your peace. Over time I learned something that changed everything for me: Freedom isn’t mainly the power to say “yes.” Freedom is the power to say “no.” No more. That’s enough. I’m not doing that. I’m not living under that pressure. That ability—being able to say no and still be okay—is a kind of strength most of us rarely experience, because our desires become our masters. And this is where striving never ends: we don’t only strive to get more—we strive to keep what we have, to maintain the image, to protect the lifestyle, to hold the system together. For me, the hardest part was letting go. Walking away from a career, from a salary, from the sense of control. The question in my mind was the same question most people carry: If I let go… how will I maintain what I have? How will I get what I want? How will I live? But something unexpected happened on the other side. Once I was free from that system, something shifted in me. I didn’t just lose pressure—I lost the craving. I no longer needed the same things to feel okay, because my joy started coming from a different place. It’s not that I never buy things. It’s not that I never travel. It’s that those things are no longer the goal. They’re not what I live for. They’re additions—gifts I can enjoy when they come, without needing them to hold me together. That’s one of the clearest signs that striving is losing its grip: You can enjoy good things without being owned by them. And here’s the part that’s hard for most of us: we often want the joy *before* we let go. We want guarantees. We want proof. We want to feel safe first, and then we’ll release what we’re clinging to. But faith works in the opposite direction. Faith is stepping toward what you believe is true even when you don’t have control. It’s releasing what you cannot keep, to discover what you could never earn. I’m not asking you to believe this because it sounds inspiring. I’m telling you this because it’s been my life. I didn’t read it in a textbook. I lived it. And if you want to keep walking, the questions that come next will go deeper—not quickly, not forcefully, but honestly—so you can begin to see what it might look like to live free, from the inside out. **Reflection:** Where in your life does “more” still feel like the only path to rest?
What does the first step toward freedom actually look like? The first step toward freedom is not a dramatic change—it’s an honest pause. Most people assume the journey begins with action: quitting something, starting something new, letting go of something tangible. But that wasn’t true for me, and it usually isn’t true for anyone who’s been shaped by a system over many years. Before any visible change happens, something deeper has to shift. When you’ve spent decades living inside a structure—any structure—it becomes more than a way of life. It becomes identity. It tells you who you are, what you’re worth, and how safe you are. So stepping toward freedom isn’t just leaving a job, a habit, or a lifestyle. It’s stepping away from the version of yourself that only exists inside that system. That’s why the first step feels unsettling. When I walked away from my career, the hardest part wasn’t the financial uncertainty. It wasn’t even the fear of not knowing what would come next. It was the stripping away of identity. Outside the system, I felt exposed—almost naked. The labels were gone. The metrics were gone. The sense of control was gone. And for a while, I felt purposeless. That experience is not failure. It’s preparation. Just like no one climbs a mountain without training, no one steps into freedom without first being reshaped. We don’t unlearn decades of conditioning overnight. We don’t instantly trust something different just because it sounds right. Real change requires time—time to rest, time to be redefined, time for old instincts to loosen their grip. For me, that process took months. Nearly a year passed before I experienced true rest—real mental and emotional release. And even then, the temptation to run back to the familiar was strong. Not because it was good, but because it was known. That’s why the first step toward freedom is not “doing,” but **seeing**. Seeing how much of your identity is tied to what you produce. Seeing what you’re afraid to lose. Seeing what you believe you need in order to feel secure. This kind of evaluation is uncomfortable—but it’s essential. You can’t step out of a system you don’t recognize. And you can’t move forward until you understand what you’re actually leaving behind. So if you’re wondering what your first step is, here it is: Give yourself permission to stop striving long enough to be honest. Not to fix anything yet. Not to decide anything yet. Just to notice. Freedom doesn’t begin with escape. It begins with clarity. And clarity comes before courage. **Reflection:** What part of your identity feels most threatened by the idea of real freedom? Take your time with that question. This journey isn’t rushed—and neither are you.
Why Am I Afraid to Take the First Step? Fear is not a sign that something is wrong with you. It’s a sign that you’re standing at the edge of something unfamiliar. Most fear doesn’t come from danger—it comes from *not knowing*. From having no pattern, no proof, no lived experience to lean on. Even when we say we have faith, it’s often a faith that hasn’t been tested yet. And untested faith feels fragile. That’s why fear rises up so quickly when we talk about freedom. Let me be clear about something important: no one is asking you to quit your job, give up your possessions, or walk away from your life. This stage of the journey isn’t about drastic action. It’s about honest preparation. Reflection. Seeing clearly what has shaped you—and what still holds you. Most fear at this point is exaggerated by misunderstanding. Letting go does not mean losing everything. Loosening your grip is not the same as becoming reckless or irresponsible. But the fear feels real because the system we live in is designed to make it feel that way. I spent nearly thirty years in my career. I was respected. Experienced. Secure. At the peak of income and influence. And the system constantly reminded me of what I would lose if I left. I used to call it the “golden handcuffs.” You’re always told you’re free to leave—but once you do, there’s no going back. The years, the status, the security—they vanish. That fear is powerful. And it raises real questions: *What if I never get to travel again?* *What if I never enjoy the things I enjoy now?* *What if this doesn’t work?* *What if I regret leaving more than I regret staying?* Those questions haunted me. But eventually, a deeper one surfaced—one I couldn’t ignore: **What will I regret more?** Trying and failing… or never trying at all? I’ve listened to people near the end of their lives. I’ve read their stories. I’ve watched regret up close. And almost without exception, the pain isn’t about what they tried and failed at. It’s about what they never dared to pursue. The question *“What if?”* weighs heavier than almost anything else. That realization didn’t remove fear—but it reframed it. I came to understand something else, too. The system promises security, but it delays life. It tells us that if we work hard enough, long enough, someday we’ll be free—usually at retirement. But many never get there. And those who do often arrive tired, limited, or unwell. The freedom they were promised never fully materializes. So I had to decide what mattered more: guaranteed comfort or the chance at real freedom. For me, that decision ultimately came down to trust. Not trust in myself—but trust in something greater than myself. I wanted to know if God was truly who He claimed to be. Jesus said He was truth and life. I realized I would never know the weight of that claim unless I was willing to step toward it. And I asked myself one final question: If this isn’t true… what have I really lost? And if it *is* true… what have I been missing? Fear didn’t disappear overnight. But clarity began to grow. And with clarity came courage—not reckless courage, but steady courage. Fear is part of this journey. It always will be. But fear doesn’t get the final word. **Reflection:** What fear feels loudest for you right now—and what might it be protecting you from seeing? You don’t need to answer that quickly. Take your time. Freedom is not rushed.
What does walking this journey actually look like? Walking this journey doesn’t begin with joining something. It begins with *seeing someone else walk it honestly*. I’ve been on this journey for a long time. I’ve spent more than twenty years seeking truth, and over the past several years I’ve been sharing that pursuit publicly—through teaching, mentoring, discipleship, and conversation. Not because I feel like I’ve arrived, but because I’m convinced of what I’ve found. This website exists as a living record of that journey. What I’m offering here is not a program, a system, or a set of requirements. I’m offering my life—put on display as testimony. I don’t teach to persuade people. I teach because I’m persuaded. Because I’ve tasted something real. And I believe freedom is meant to be shared, not guarded. This isn’t a static space. As my life continues, these resources will continue to grow. More conversations. More teachings. More reflection. None of it is required. None of it is designed to pressure you forward. It’s here so that if you’re seeking, you don’t have to seek alone. At the center of everything here is a simple conviction: real life is found in knowing God as He truly is. I believe God reveals Himself. I believe He keeps His promises. And I believe that as we respond to what He reveals, we find the life He offers. That belief hasn’t come from theory—it has come from walking it out, slowly, imperfectly, over many years. One passage has anchored my life in this pursuit: > *“Without faith it is impossible to please Him, for whoever would draw near to God must believe that He exists and that He rewards those who seek Him.”* — Hebrews 11:6 That verse isn’t something I quote lightly. I’ve lived it. I’ve trusted it. And I’ve watched it prove true. If you choose to keep walking here, you’ll find ways to engage at your own pace. You can listen to conversations. You can read. You can come and go. You can follow along quietly or join discussion where it feels helpful. There is a community forming—most visibly through shared conversation—but nothing here costs you anything except attention and honesty. I’m not distant. I don’t want to be unreachable. I believe faith is meant to be lived *with* people, not above them. At the heart of it all is this: our lives were not made for performance, but for praise. When we come to know God as He is—and respond to that truth—something changes. Joy deepens. Striving loosens. Freedom becomes real. Not because life is easy, but because life is rooted in something greater than us. I can describe that all day. But at some point, it has to be experienced. So this is the invitation—not to agree, not to commit, not to join—but simply to walk. To seek honestly. To remain open. And to discover, over time, whether the life that’s being offered here is real. Jesus said, *“If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.”* I believe that promise is true. And I hope, in time, you’ll come to know it for yourself.