Sea Anchor of the Soul

Sea Anchor of the Soul

by Kateb Shunnar

I’ve been shipwrecked.

Not the kind folks rush to report, with broken timbers and flashing lights. I’m talking about the silent kind. The kind where it’s your insides that break apart. Quiet. Invisible. And brutal. I’m floating now, in a lifeboat I didn’t choose, drifting through this season solo or so it feels.

But I’m not really alone. I’ve got two unwanted tagalongs: my ego and my fears. They don’t say much at once, but when they speak, they cut deep. Whispering doubts. Stirring up shadows I thought I’d outgrown.

And right now? Yeah… I’m crying.

Not out of surrender. No, these tears they fall because I still give a damn. Because somewhere in this chest of mine, behind the ache and noise, there’s still a flicker of something that refuses to die. A whisper saying, “Keep going. Breathe. Trust.”

You ever been seasick? That kind of dizzy where you can’t tell up from down? Well, life’s got its own version. One minute you’re cruising steady, next thing you know, it flips you sideways and you’re holding on for dear life. It’s exhausting, this back-and-forth. The surprises. The free-falls. The days where peace feels like some mythical creature, long gone and rarely seen.

I get it. I truly do.

I know the gut-punch of feeling invisible. The sting of being misread. The hollow ache of sitting in a crowded room but feeling like you’re the only one there. There are nights plenty of them where I sit in the dark and ask the heavens why everything feels so damn hard. Why storms seem to last longer than I do. Why silence can be so loud.

I cry because I’ve wrestled with pain that makes you question everything your worth, your presence, your place in this big, spinning mess of a world. And sometimes, even now, those doubts creep in.

So I do what I’ve always done I gather the pieces of myself, sit in the quiet, and breathe deep. I close my eyes and wait for that still, sacred whisper. The one that doesn’t argue. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t shout over the chaos. It waits. Like the Divine always does. Patient. Kind. Steady.

I write because the words mend me.

I pray because I’m desperate for something bigger than this pain.

And when it all becomes too much when the waves crash inside and out I drop anchor in the only place that holds: that deep-down silence that only shows up after a real cry, an honest prayer, and a long stare into your own reflection.

The sea… she doesn’t play. She’s ruthless. But she’s real.

See, when a boat turns sideways to the wind, the waves don’t play fair. They hit harder. And that’s what happens when we let our ego take the wheel. When fear becomes our compass, we drift. We lose direction. And suddenly we’re wondering why life keeps slamming us.

But sailors they’ve got this trick. A sea anchor. It doesn’t stop the boat. It just keeps it facing forward. Toward the wind. Toward whatever’s coming. It holds your direction, not your position.

And maybe… maybe that’s what the Creator’s been trying to show me all along.

That the storm? It’s not some punishment. It’s part of the process. That the wreckage? It wasn’t the end of me it was the start of something real. That the silence I feared was actually an invitation to go deeper. To learn how to hold hands with the universe when no one else can reach me.

I used to cry for rescue. Beg for it. Wishing someone anyone would throw me a rope, pull me out, save me from myself. But lately… I’ve been asking for something else. For vision. For quiet strength. For the kind of inner peace that lets me face the storm and say, “You don’t scare me anymore. Not with the fire that lives in me.”

I know what it’s like to put on a brave face, laugh at jokes, keep things light… all while your heart is screaming behind the curtain. I know what it’s like to want to throw in the towel. But I also know the sacredness of staying. Of breathing through one more moment. Of reaching deeper than you thought you could and finding the thread that holds you together.

Even now, with tears tracing my jaw, I feel that invisible thread tugging me back to center.

Back to something that feels like home.

Not a place you can map. Not brick and mortar. But a soul-space. A place where the sea still roars, but you’re not shaken. A place where your spirit doesn’t sink not because the waves aren’t real, but because your anchor knows how to hold.

So if you’re floating too adrift in your own mess, flanked by fear and ego whispering their usual lies just know this:

You’re not alone.

I’m right here with you. Floating. Facing the wind. Crying when I need to. Writing what hurts. Praying with everything I’ve got.

And the same sacred grace that keeps holding me it’s got room for you too.

You’re not beyond healing.

You’re just in the deep end of transformation.

Let the waves teach you what strength looks like.

Let the silence remind you of who you are.

Let the Creator meet you where words fail with that peace that defies reason.

Because even the most shattered souls can find their way.

Even lifeboats can become sanctuaries…

When the anchor is faith.