A Quiet Desperation to Sit With Him

As Sunday rolls around and I sit here with my first cup of coffee for today, there is a sense of excitement in the air. The coffee is strong enough to wake up my ancestors, and for the first time since Friday afternoon, it feels like I have finally recovered from my first week at Gold Coast University Hospital.

Even though my week technically ended then, it didn’t really end.

Not internally.

It’s taken until now, sitting here in the quiet of a Sunday morning, for my body to catch up with what my mind and emotions have been processing all week.

And that says something.

There are certain weeks that pass through your life without leaving much behind.

Routine weeks.

Predictable weeks.

Weeks where you move through your days, and by the time Sunday arrives, you’ve already mentally reset.

But this wasn’t one of those weeks.

This was a week that took something out of me.

Not in a negative way.

But in a real way.

A stretching way.

A way that left me feeling like I had stepped into something new and unfamiliar and hadn’t quite found my footing yet.

The week consisted of very little sleep, deadlines, mental focus, schedules, and workshops.

And it’s easy to get lost in that.

Easy to get caught in the movement.

The responsibility.

The workload.

Everything starts to stack.

Task after task.

Thought after thought.

Expectation after expectation.

And before you realise it, you’re not just moving through your week.

You’re trying to keep up with it.

There’s a kind of quiet chaos that builds in that environment.

Not loud.

Not obvious.

But constant.

And if you’re not careful, you can lose yourself in it.

Lose your centre.

Lose your grounding.

Lose the stillness that you didn’t even realise you needed.

But in the end, all of that means nothing if I can’t bring it back to Christ.

If I can’t sit at His feet.

and rest in the power of the Gospel 

Because what’s the point of carrying everything well externally if internally I’m disconnected?

What’s the point of meeting every responsibility if I lose sight of the One who gives it meaning?

And that’s something I’ve felt this week.

Not as a failure.

But as a realisation.

Because as I wrote yesterday, there has been tears.

There has been anxiety.

There has been self reflection.

Moments where I’ve sat with everything that the week stirred up in me.

Moments where I’ve had to slow down and actually feel it.

Not just move past it.

Not just push through it.

But sit in it.

Decompress.

Let it surface.

And that’s not always comfortable.

Because when everything slows down, what’s underneath begins to rise.

The thoughts you didn’t process in the moment.

The emotions you pushed aside just to get through the day.

The tension you carried without even realising it.

And I’ve felt that.

But this morning feels different.

This morning feels like the first moment where everything has settled just enough for me to feel like myself again.

Not a perfect version of myself.

Not a fully rested version.

But a grounded one.

A present one.

And that matters more than anything.

Because from that place, I can finally see the week clearly.

Not just what I did.

But what it meant.

Stepping into the hospital this week wasn’t just about learning a role.

It was about stepping into a new environment that carries weight.

Hospitals carry a unique atmosphere.

You can feel it without anyone saying anything.

It’s not loud.

It’s not chaotic in the way people might expect.

It’s more subtle than that.

There is a seriousness that sits in the air.

A kind of unspoken understanding that every person walking those corridors is carrying something.

Some carry hope.

Some carry fear.

Some carry questions they don’t yet have answers to.

And stepping into that space, even in orientation, I could feel it.

There’s something sacred about it.

Not in a religious sense.

But in a human sense.

Because when people are vulnerable, when they’re stripped back to what’s real, something shifts.

And being in that environment requires something from you.

Not just physically.

But internally.

A level of awareness.

A level of presence.

And I think that’s part of what made this week so draining.

Not just the workload.

Not just the learning.

But the awareness.

Being present in a space where real things are happening.

Where life and struggle intersect in a way that you can’t ignore.

And that carries weight.

But now, sitting here on a Sunday morning, that weight doesn’t feel overwhelming.

It feels placed.

Because I’m not trying to carry it alone anymore.

That’s the shift.

And that’s why this morning matters so much.

Because as I think through the day ahead, I’m not just looking forward to church as something to attend.

I feel in me a quiet desperation to sit at the feet of Jesus.

Not out of obligation.

Not out of routine.

But because I need to.

Because this week has shown me something clearly.

I can step into new environments.

I can handle responsibility.

I can push through tiredness.

But if I don’t come back to Him…

If I don’t sit in His presence

If I don’t bring everything back to Him

I will lose the very thing that sustains me.

And I don’t want that.

So this morning feels like a return.

Not because I’ve drifted far.

But because I’ve been stretched.

And stretching has a way of showing you where your limits are.

But it also shows you where your source is.

And my source is not my strength.

Not my ability to push through.

Not my ability to hold everything together.

It’s Christ.

And that’s why there’s a quiet desperation in me this morning.

Not panic.

Not urgency in a negative sense.

But a deep, steady need to come back to that place.

To sit.

To be still.

To listen.

To let everything I’ve carried this week settle in His presence.

Because that’s where things realign.

Not through effort.

Not through more thinking.

But through presence.

And as I finish my coffee, I can feel that happening already.

The tiredness is still there.

But it’s softer.

The overwhelm hasn’t completely disappeared.

But it’s no longer leading.

There’s something underneath it now.

Peace.

Not loud.

Not overwhelming.

But steady.

And I know where that’s coming from.

And that’s why this morning matters.

Because it’s not just recovery.

It’s reconnection.

And as I get ready to step into church, that’s what I carry with me.

Everything from the week.

The chaos.

The pressure.

The learning.

The stretching.

The tears.

The reflection.

All of it.

And I don’t try to resolve it before I go.

I just bring it.

And sit at His feet.

Because in the end, that’s where everything finds its place again.

And that…

is exactly what I need today.

And as I move positively into today, I am excited to ponder on the opportunities and open doors that the Lord is going to open this week.

There is something about standing at the edge of a new week that carries a quiet anticipation.

Not the kind that is loud or driven by expectation.

But something deeper.

A sense that even though I don’t know what the week holds, I am not stepping into it blindly.

Because this week has already shown me something important.

I don’t need to have everything figured out before I step forward.

I don’t need to control every outcome.

I don’t need to remove the feeling of overwhelm before I move.

I just need to walk.

And as I think about that, I find myself shifting from reflection into expectation.

Not expectation rooted in what I can do.

But expectation rooted in what God can do.

Because if I’m honest, when I look ahead at this next week, there are still unknowns.

Still things I will need to learn.

Still moments where I will feel stretched again.

But that doesn’t feel intimidating in the same way it might have before.

Because this past week has already shown me something.

God was present in it.

In the tiredness.

In the pressure.

In the moments where I felt like I was still finding my footing.

And if He was present in that

Then He will be present in what’s ahead.

That’s where trust begins to settle in.

Not as a feeling.

But as a decision.

To believe that the same God who carried me through what I’ve just walked through will continue to carry me into what’s next.

And that changes how I see the week ahead.

Because instead of looking at it through the lens of pressure, I can begin to look at it through the lens of opportunity.

Not opportunity in a worldly sense.

Not about achievement or recognition.

But opportunity to grow.

To learn.

To become more grounded.

More aware.

More aligned with what God is doing in me.

And I think that’s what I’m most aware of right now.

That open doors don’t always look like big moments.

They don’t always come with clear signs or dramatic shifts.

Sometimes they look like small steps.

Daily responsibilities.

Moments where you show up again, even when you’re still learning.

And that’s where I believe the doors are opening.

Not somewhere far ahead.

But right in front of me.

In the next shift.

In the next conversation.

In the next moment where I choose to trust instead of control.

Because I’ve come to realise that God doesn’t always reveal the whole path.

He reveals the step.

And if I’m willing to take that step, then the next one appears.

And the next.

And over time, what once felt unclear begins to form into something steady.

So as I sit here, finishing my coffee, preparing to step into church and then into a new week, there’s a quiet shift happening in me.

Not from tiredness to full energy.

Not from overwhelm to complete clarity.

But from carrying to trusting.

From trying to manage everything myself

To releasing it into His hands.

And that’s where peace begins to take shape.

Because peace isn’t found in having everything under control.

It’s found in knowing the One who is.

And I think that’s what I’m walking into this week with.

Not a perfect plan.

Not a fully mapped out path.

But a posture.

A posture of trust.

A posture of willingness.

A posture of quiet expectation.

That God is already moving.

Already opening doors.

Already working in ways I can’t yet see.

And my role in that is not to force it.

Not to rush it.

But to walk in it.

Step by step.

Day by day.

Trusting that what is being built in this season matters.

Even if it still feels new.

Even if it still feels like I’m finding my footing.

Because growth often feels like that.

Unsteady at first.

Unclear at times.

But real.

And as I move into this week, that’s what I carry with me.

Not just the lessons from the past week.

But the expectation that God is not finished.

He is still working.

Still shaping.

Still opening doors.

And I get to walk into that.

Not alone.

But with Him.

And for me, right now

That’s more than enough.

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About the Author

Dylan Verdun Sullivan is the founder of Refined by Fire Press and an Australian author indexed in the National Library of Australia. As a Level 7 Local Guide with over 1.7 million views on Google Maps, he documents the intersection of faith, recovery, and the light found in ordinary places.

• Read the Memoir: Kissed by Death on Amazon
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