The way of the wilderness

There comes a moment, sometimes quietly, often brutally, and always uninvited, when life leads us into the wilderness. This is not the green wilderness of Instagrammed hikes or curated retreats, but an untamed, bewildering space where the old maps no longer work. It's a place where the usual comforts fall away, leaving us with only ourselves, the wind, and the waiting silence. We do not choose the wilderness; it arrives unexpectedly, like a change in the weather. It emerges through a loss, a significant change, or a question that remains unanswered. The wilderness comes when the roles we’ve played no longer fit, when the faith we’ve carried begins to crack, or when the noise of the world becomes unbearable, and our soul quietly refuses to keep pretending.

Throughout various spiritual traditions—Hebrew, Christian, Sufi, Indigenous, and Buddhist—the wilderness is not seen as punishment. It is a form of preparation. It is not abandonment but an invitation. Moses encountered the burning bush not in a palace, but in the desert. Jesus was led into the wilderness after his baptism, not for celebration but for testing, being stripped down and made ready. The mystics referred to this experience as the dark night of the soul. It is not a path of despair but rather one of transformation.

In the wilderness, we are compelled to let go of certainty, identity, and control. We begin to ask ourselves: Who am I when everything else falls away? What remains when plans unravel? The wilderness does not provide quick answers. Instead, it stretches time, thins the veil, and teaches us to listen in new ways. Here lies a strange mercy: what we fear might destroy us often reveals what truly sustains us. In the wild, distractions fade, and what is essential begins to speak—the cry of the heart, the whisper of the Spirit, and the memory of who we were before the world defined us. This journey is not about discovering a silver lining or romanticising hardship. The wilderness is hard, lonely, and frightening. Yet, it is also holy ground.

In the process of stripping away, space is created for something new to emerge—not from effort, but from surrender. The soul grows slowly, and the wild does not rush. Eventually, we emerge changed, not in the way we expected, but in the way we needed. With new perspectives, a clearer voice, and a heart that has been made tender by the wind and fierce by the silence. We do not return with easy answers, but with deeper roots. So, if you find yourself in the wilderness—adrift, uncertain, or undone—take heart. You are not lost, you are being led. Not around, but through. The wilderness is not the end of the road; it is the holy middle—the place where necessary work is done. Trust that something sacred is unfolding, even here.