There’s a moment – and maybe you’ve felt it too – where your whole body just knows something is off.
Your stomach drops. Your chest tightens. Your breath shallows without warning. A single look, a raised voice, a difficult conversation, or the hint of rejection – and suddenly you’re not in the moment anymore. You’re in survival mode. On edge. Hyper-aware. Ready to run. Or maybe ready to roar.
They call it the fight or flight response – and for good reason. It’s a beautifully designed, life-preserving mechanism. Our brains, sensing threat, override everything else and prepare us to defend or escape. It doesn’t ask questions. It just acts.
But what happens when that instinct crashes into something divine?
What happens when everything in us says Run – but grace says Stay?
Recently, I found myself in one of those moments. One of those utterly disorientating and deeply revealing moments. The kind where every fibre of your being is screaming for release – and yet, somehow, you stay.
I won’t go into all the details – they’re still too close to share fully, still a bit raw – but I’ll say this: I was faced with a situation that caught me completely off guard. Emotionally. Spiritually. Physically. I felt cornered by uncertainty, by old wounds, by the very real fear of not being understood.
And everything in me – everything – wanted to get up, walk away, and not look back.
Not in anger. Not even in pride. Just in that quiet, trembling kind of self-preservation. That aching desire to find safety elsewhere – to be anywhere but there. You might know that feeling.
But here’s what surprised me.
I didn’t run.
I didn’t fight either.
I didn’t lash out or push back or try to prove a point. Somehow – and I can’t explain this except through the language of God – a strange calm came over me.
It wasn’t me. I know myself. And I know the version of me that panics and catastrophises and rehearses all the clever things I should’ve said. But in that moment? I was held. I was still. I was present.
I stood there – heart racing, yes – but grounded. Aware. And somehow okay. There was no bravado, no spiritual platitude, no attempt to “handle” it. Just…grace. A grace I didn’t summon. A grace that was simply there.
We don’t talk enough about what grace feels like in real time.
We talk about it theologically. We sing about it in hymns and worship songs. We frame it as forgiveness, as favour, as the unearned kindness of God – and it is all of those things.
But grace is also what shows up in the middle of your worst moment and doesn’t leave.
Grace is presence. A sacred stillness. A peace that doesn’t make any logical sense but takes up residence anyway.
Grace doesn’t shout. It doesn’t push. It doesn’t manipulate. It doesn’t override your instincts, but it does reframe them. It reminds you that you are more than your defence mechanisms. That you are loved even when you are afraid. That God is near – even here.
And in my moment of panic, that’s exactly what I felt.
Not a voice. Not a miracle. Not a spiritual fireworks display.
Just stillness. Just nearness. Just enough strength to stay.
The thing about survival mode is that it’s rarely wrong – but it’s not always the whole truth.
Your body’s response to stress is wise. It’s ancient. It’s earned. And sometimes it’s exactly what you need – to speak up, to walk away, to find safety. There is no shame in that.
But there are also moments where the instinct to run collides with the Spirit’s whisper: You don’t have to run this time. I’m with you in it.
It’s not about bravery. It’s not about being impressive. It’s about trust. Not in yourself – but in the One who promises to hold you when you’re unravelling.
And that changes everything.
I’ve always been a bit of a runner, if I’m honest.
Not in the literal sense – you won’t catch me in a half-marathon anytime soon – but emotionally? Spiritually? When things feel overwhelming, my default has often been to withdraw.
I call it reflection. Discernment. Space.
But if I dig a little deeper, I know the truth: it’s fear. It’s the fear of conflict. The fear of failure. The fear of not being enough. And so I disappear – sometimes only internally – before anything can confirm the fears I already carry.
Maybe you know that pattern too. Maybe yours is the opposite – maybe you push back, control the room, raise your voice. Maybe your default is fight rather than flight. But either way – it’s survival.
And survival is not the same as peace.
There’s a line in Philippians that I’ve heard quoted in all kinds of settings.
“And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:7)
We often hear that verse on its own. But the part that always catches me is the word guard.
It suggests something strong. Not a fragile peace. Not a temporary one. But a peace that stands watch over your inner world. A peace that holds the line when you’re too tired to.
That’s what I experienced.
Not a fix. Not a solution. Not a spiritual override button.
Just a guard. A peace that stood where I couldn’t. A grace that let me be human and held me anyway.
So what do we do with all of this?
How do we live in a world where survival instincts are often necessary – but where grace is trying to do something deeper?
I think the first step is to notice.
To notice when you’re operating from fear. To notice when your body is tightening, your thoughts racing, your breath shortening. To notice when you’re about to say something out of protection rather than connection.
And instead of judging it – bring it to God.
Not to fix it. Not to explain it away. Just to invite Him in.
Because when we name our fear, we create space for grace to speak. When we slow down – even briefly – we give ourselves a chance to choose presence over panic. Peace over performance. Grace over gut-reaction.
And sometimes, the most courageous thing you can do is stay.
Stay in the moment. Stay in the discomfort. Stay in the knowing that you are not alone – even when you feel fragile.
In that recent moment of mine, I left the space eventually. The conversation ended. The day moved on. But I left differently.
Not because I had won anything. Not because everything had been neatly resolved. But because I had tasted something different – a glimpse of what it means to let God hold you instead of holding it all yourself.
And I don’t think I’ll forget that moment anytime soon.
Because it reminded me – again – that my story isn’t defined by my fear.
It’s defined by grace.
So maybe today you’re in a place where everything feels heightened.
Maybe there’s a conversation you’re dreading, a grief that has stirred old survival instincts. Maybe you’ve been fighting for control or running from vulnerability – or both, depending on the hour.
If that’s you, I want to say this gently: there’s no shame in your response. You’re not weak for feeling what you feel. You’re not unspiritual for needing space or protection.
But there is another way.
Not one that denies your fear, but one that lets grace meet it. Not one that demands bravery, but one that offers peace.
A peace that stands guard. A grace that doesn’t make sense. A God who doesn’t run from the mess – but steps right into it.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to help you stay.
Josh | A Curious Follower
If this resonated with you, feel free to share it or leave a comment. You’re not alone in this.
SUCH a great post Josh. 👌🏼
Thank you for writing this Josh.