The Next Right Thing

Standing at the entrance of her college admissions building, Emily felt the weight of uncertainty pressing against her chest. The familiar smell of initiative and angst filled the air as she clutched her transcript request, caught between a decision that had kept her awake for weeks. Should she enroll in graduate school? The question begged for an answer while she tried to navigate the mights and maybes that permeate our sleepless nights. Maybe she should accept the position, maybe she was making the right choice, maybe she was making a terrible mistake.

This moment of paralysis reflects a universal human struggle. We make over 35,000 decisions daily, yet when faced with life's significant crossroads, we often find ourselves frozen by the sheer weight of choice. Whether it's career transitions, relationships, parenting decisions, or even simple daily choices, our modern world overwhelms us with options while providing little guidance on how to choose wisely. The result is decision fatigue that leaves us exhausted, anxious, and desperately seeking clarity that seems perpetually out of reach.

Emily discovered her decision paralysis had a hidden source when she began examining her morning routine. Like many of us, she started each day by immediately diving into the digital stream of consciousness, jumping from site to site, tweet to tweet, constantly consuming information without pause. Her phone buzzed with notifications from Facebook, Instagram, and news apps, each demanding immediate attention and fragmenting her focus before she'd even finished her first cup of coffee.

The breakthrough came during a Netflix documentary about minimalism, where she heard a woman named Courtney Carver share her story. Diagnosed with MS, Courtney initially responded by working harder and overextending herself further. When advised to "listen to her body," she responded with frustration: "I can't even listen to my family; I don't know how I'm going to hear my body." This revelation struck Emily profoundly. If we struggle to listen to our family and our own bodies, how much more difficult is it to hear the whispers of our soul?

Emily began to understand that our souls, like our homes, accumulate clutter from constant input without regular output. Every difficult conversation, suspicious glance, and regretful word gets stored away, creating internal chaos that makes decision-making nearly impossible. The solution isn't to eliminate complexity from our lives, but rather to create space for our souls to breathe. This means turning off notifications, embracing moments of silence, and refusing to let everyone else's agenda live rent-free in our minds.

The practice of becoming a soul minimalist doesn't require dramatic life changes. It starts with small acts of rebellion against the tyranny of constant connectivity. Emily began with fifteen-minute walks without her phone, morning coffee in silence, and deliberately choosing presence over productivity. These micro-practices created cracks of space where wisdom could finally break through the noise.

Just as a cluttered home makes it impossible to find what we need, a cluttered soul makes it impossible to hear the gentle guidance we're seeking. When we create intentional space for stillness, we discover that the answers we've been frantically searching for externally have been quietly waiting within us all along.

During a challenging period following her father-in-law's death, Emily watched her husband John struggle with unnamed grief that manifested as panic attacks and sleepless nights. He returned to work immediately after the funeral, maintaining his regular pace while his soul lingered in loss. The disconnect between his external productivity and internal processing created a dangerous tension that his body eventually refused to ignore.

This experience taught Emily a powerful lesson about the importance of naming our internal narratives. She recalled watching CNN coverage of Nancy Writebol, the American medical missionary who survived Ebola. When Writebol appeared at a press conference, a reporter observed, "It would be very easy for their narrative to be one of traumatization. But it's not a narrative of trauma. It's a narrative of joy." This comment lingered with Emily, highlighting how we all carry unnamed stories that shape our decisions and responses.

The danger of unnamed narratives lies in their invisible power over our lives. When we don't acknowledge what's happening beneath the surface, these hidden stories influence our choices in ways we don't recognize. John's unprocessed grief wasn't just affecting his sleep; it was impacting every decision he made about work, family, and his future. The first step toward healing wasn't action or planning—it was simply naming what remained hidden.

Emily began asking herself probing questions: Is there a hurt I haven't let go? A dream I haven't given myself permission to explore? An excitement I've been afraid to acknowledge? The process of naming isn't the same as explaining or fixing; it's simply bringing light to what has been living in shadows. This practice requires courage because we often discover things we'd rather ignore or feelings we've been taught to dismiss.

The power of naming extends beyond personal inventory to how we understand our circumstances. When Emily finally named her work situation as "having a job" rather than being a "stay-at-home mom who writes," everything shifted. Her expectations of herself, her conversations with her husband, and her approach to daily decisions all changed because she finally acknowledged her reality rather than living in denial.

When Emily cleaned out her email inbox one overwhelmed afternoon, she discovered a troubling pattern. She had subscribed to Instagram teachers, business coaches, book launch experts, decluttering guides, and countless online assessments about her personality type, hair type, and marketing style. While each teacher offered valuable insights, together they created a cacophony of competing voices that left her feeling anxious and scattered.

She realized she had been collecting gurus during a season when she lacked clarity about her own direction. This is a common trap: when we feel insecure or aimless, we latch onto someone else's confidence, hoping their clarity will somehow transfer to us. The problem is that seeking external wisdom before establishing internal vision leads to decision paralysis rather than breakthrough. We end up trying to follow multiple paths simultaneously, each pulling us in different directions.

The antidote to guru collecting is finding co-listeners—people who can sit with us in our uncertainty without trying to solve our problems or impose their solutions. When Emily and John faced a major vocational transition, they gathered a small group of trusted friends who could offer something more valuable than advice: presence. These co-listeners didn't try to answer their questions but instead asked thoughtful questions and reflected back what they heard.

Emily also discovered the value of a "No Mentor"—someone who helps filter opportunities and decisions through the lens of what truly matters. Her sister Myquillyn became this person for her, someone who wasn't impressed by shiny opportunities but cared deeply about Emily's soul and family. A good No Mentor helps you see through the mythology of "great opportunities" to discern what aligns with your actual values and capacity.

The goal isn't to become dependent on others for decision-making but to recognize that isolation breeds anxiety while community provides perspective. We need people who know us well enough to remind us who we are when we've forgotten, and who care more about our wellbeing than our productivity. These relationships create a foundation of security from which we can make decisions with confidence rather than fear.

Growing up, Emily lived next to a man named Mr. Huntington, whose house was covered with orange-and-black "No Trespassing" signs. His property felt forbidden and unwelcoming, creating anxiety every time she had to wait for the school bus at the end of his driveway. Years later, she realized she had been treating her own soul the same way—standing at the threshold of her inner life as if she were an unwelcome visitor rather than coming home to herself.

Coming home to yourself requires becoming a gracious host to your own soul instead of a suspicious neighbor. This means paying attention to the words others speak that make you feel fully seen and known, not just positively affirmed. When Emily's friend Tsh told her she felt "pastored" by their friendship, something lit up inside Emily that felt both foreign and familiar. These moments of recognition are clues to our design and calling.

The practice also involves noticing when you feel most like yourself. Where were you? What were you doing? Who were you with—and perhaps equally important, who were you not with? Emily discovered that she felt most authentic when creating space for others to breathe, when offering gentle guidance without trying to control outcomes, and when holding space for questions without rushing to provide answers.

This self-knowledge becomes practical in daily decisions. When we know who we are and what brings us alive, we can make choices that align with our design rather than fighting against it. Emily learned to choose better-fitting clothes as a spiritual discipline, recognizing that caring for her physical comfort was connected to caring for her soul. These small acts of self-respect create a foundation for larger decisions.

The goal isn't self-obsession but self-awareness in the presence of God. When we know who we are, we can offer our authentic selves to others rather than performing versions of who we think they want us to be. This freedom transforms how we walk into rooms, make decisions, and engage with opportunities. We move from asking "What do they think of me?" to "How can I serve and connect?"

On March 1, 2016, while the entire country focused on Super Tuesday election results, Emily stayed awake watching NASA's quiet coverage of astronaut Scott Kelly's return to Earth after 340 days in space. The contrast was striking: while political broadcasts offered sensational commentary and dramatic predictions, NASA's coverage was steady, professional, and focused solely on bringing their astronauts home safely. There were no flashy graphics or breathless reporters, just competent people doing important work.

This image became a metaphor for how God works in our lives. While we're often looking for dramatic signs and immediate answers, God tends to work with the quiet competence of mission control—steady, reliable, and focused on bringing us safely home. Our times are in the hands of the One who made time itself, yet we often miss His gentle guidance because we're looking for spectacular interventions rather than everyday faithfulness.

The kingdom of God operates like a tilted earth, creating seasons of planting and harvest, light and darkness, growth and rest. When we're in a season of waiting, it's natural to question whether we've done something wrong or missed an important sign. But seeds require darkness and time to develop roots before they can break through the soil. The waiting isn't wasted time; it's necessary preparation for what's coming.

Emily learned that decisions are rarely the point—transformation is. Our choices shape our lives, but they also shape us. The process of wrestling with uncertainty, seeking wisdom, and learning to trust God in the unknown develops character that no quick answer could provide. Whether we choose the job or don't, move to the new city or stay, the real question is who we're becoming through the process.

This perspective changes how we approach our "next right thing." Instead of demanding clear five-year plans, we can take the next step in front of us with confidence that God will provide the next step after that. Our job isn't to figure out the entire journey but to walk faithfully with our good and beautiful God, trusting that He will not let us miss our own future.

The path to wise decision-making isn't found in perfect systems or guaranteed outcomes, but in learning to create space for our souls to breathe amid life's complexity. Like Emily discovering that her email inbox told the story of her scattered attention, we often find that our decision fatigue stems from trying to listen to too many voices while neglecting the still, small voice within us. The practice of becoming a soul minimalist—clearing internal clutter and embracing intentional silence—creates room for the wisdom we've been seeking externally to emerge from our union with God.

The most transformative decisions aren't necessarily the biggest ones, but those made from a place of authentic self-knowledge and trust. When we learn to name our unnamed narratives, choose our people wisely, and come home to ourselves in Christ, we discover that our next right thing is often simpler than we imagined. Whether it's wearing better-fitting clothes, saying no to good opportunities that aren't right for us, or simply staying present in today rather than rushing into tomorrow's worries, these small acts of faithfulness prepare us for larger moments of choice. The goal isn't perfect clarity but faithful presence—showing up as ourselves in each moment, trusting that our steps are held by a God who delights in our becoming.