Staying Afloat: Finding Your Spiritual Buoyancy in the Storm

Staying Afloat: Finding Your Spiritual Buoyancy in the Storm

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Did you know that water makes up about 60% of the human body? It’s almost as if our very essence is intertwined with the element that gives life to this planet. When you think about it, that’s pretty profound. Water doesn’t just sustain our physical bodies; it’s also a powerful symbol of the flow of life our thoughts, our emotions, and, if you’re open to it, even our spiritual journey. Life has a way of hitting you with storms, but somehow, we keep moving forward, just like water finds its way through any crack or obstacle.

Life’s got this unpredictable rhythm, doesn’t it? One minute, you’re cruising with the windows down, the sun in your face, everything feeling right, and then outta nowhere, you're slammed with a storm you never saw coming. It’s wild how things can flip on you like that. In those rough patches, when your footing feels shaky and peace is nowhere in sight, that’s when your connection to something higher really gets tested. It’s not about rehearsed prayers or quoting scriptures. Nah, it’s about raw faith. The kind that keeps you breathing when your chest is tight. The kind that whispers hope when your world’s gone quiet.

I’ve been there knees to the ground, spirit worn thin, just trying to keep from going under. And it hit me one day: staying afloat in life is a lot like staying afloat in water. It’s not about never getting hit. It’s about learning how to rise, even when the weight tries to drag you under. Think of it like spiritual buoyancy. You’ve got to build it, hold on to it, trust it.

See, we all carry stuff. Regret. Ego. Fear. Pride. All that emotional baggage can pull you down if you’re not careful. But we’ve also got these invisible life jackets. Little things that hold us up when the pressure gets heavy. For me, one of those has always been prayer, not the polished kind, but the ugly cries, the whispered “Help me” moments, the midnight talks with the Creator when I can’t sleep. That’s real. That’s a connection. And then there’s obedience, not a popular word, I know, but it’s listening deep down, tuning in when your soul knows better even if your head’s still arguing.

Faith, though? Faith is clutch. Not a blind belief. I’m talking about choosing to believe anyway. When there’s no sign, no proof just a nudge in your gut saying, “Keep going.” Faith is wild like that. It's the flashlight in a power outage. You don’t know what’s ahead, but you can see just enough to take the next step.

Patience shows up right beside it, sometimes uninvited but always necessary. The kind that stretches you. Makes you wait without snapping. And humility? It’s not a weakness. It’s wisdom. It’s knowing you’re not the center of the universe, but you are deeply loved by the One who is. That realization alone can lift you higher than pride ever could.

Kindness has this sneaky way of keeping your spirit light. When you’re good to people, even when they’re not good to you, it clears out the junk that clutters your heart. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you free. And forgiveness? Whew. That one took me a long time to learn. I used to hold on like it was power. But it was just poison in my pocket. Letting go didn’t just bless them it saved me.

Then there's gratitude the soul’s anchor. It doesn’t mean pretending everything’s perfect. It means choosing to see what’s still good. What’s still here. Sometimes it’s as small as a cup of hot coffee or a breath of fresh air. Other times it’s deeper, like realizing your pain didn’t kill you. You’re still standing. Still swinging. That counts for something.

Repentance is another one people shy away from. But it’s not about guilt-tripping yourself. It’s growth. It’s saying, “I messed up, but I’m ready to do better.” It's not about looking back with shame. It’s about stepping forward with awareness.

Now, let’s talk about the things that pull us into doubt: arrogance, grudges, and indifference. They’re like cinder blocks to the soul. Doubt slowly leaks into your confidence until everything feels shaky. Arrogance builds walls where bridges should be. And holding onto petty stuff? It’s exhausting. Like dragging dead weight and wondering why you’re tired. But indifference? That’s the sneaky one. It numbs you. Makes you stop caring. That’s the real danger of not feeling at all.

There was a time I watched a single leaf get tossed around in a raging storm, and I saw something in that moment that reflected a truth I couldn’t ignore. It inspired this poem I wrote called:

The Leaf and the Storm

It started with a breeze,

nothing serious just a leaf, light as a sigh,

floating its way across a calm morning sky.

But then, without warning,

a storm rolled in, wild and loud,

like an angry drumline banging on the roof of the world.

The wind snapped like it had something to prove.

It hurled that little leaf up,

then smacked it down like it didn’t belong there.

Lightning lit the sky like a war cry,

and thunder growled deep from the belly of the clouds.

The storm didn’t hold back

it shoved, twisted, and tried to fold that leaf in half.

Almost like it wanted to teach it a lesson:

“Stay in your place.”

But that leaf?

It didn’t crumble.

It twirled.

It flipped and dipped like it had rhythm in its veins.

There was a kind of wild elegance in the way it moved

like it knew storms don’t last forever.

And somewhere in the middle of the chaos,

as raindrops slapped the earth and trees leaned like drunks in the wind,

that leaf seemed to whisper something subtle, yet strong:

“Go ahead

shout, slam, spin me ‘round.

Throw your tantrum.

But you won’t break me.

I was built for this.”

See, that leaf wasn’t just hanging on.

It was alive with something more

resilience, maybe.

Or quiet rebellion.

It had been brushed by sunlight,

cooled by morning dew,

and it carried the memory of every gentle breeze it ever knew.

Storm or not,

it wasn't about to forget who it was.

So it kept dancing,

even when the sky tried to drown out its song.

Because some things

no matter how small

just refuse to go under.

That poem wasn’t just about a leaf. It was about me. About you. About anyone who’s ever been tossed around and still dared to twirl. We are more than our storms. We carry the memory of light. Of warmth. Of quiet moments with the Divine. And no storm, no matter how loud, can take that away.

I won’t lie to you. Sometimes, you’ll pray,, and nothing shifts. You’ll wait and wait and feel forgotten. But just because it’s silent doesn’t mean you’re alone. The Creator’s timing is never late, even when it doesn’t match your clock. There’s movement in the stillness, even when you can’t feel it. Trust that.

If I’ve learned anything, and I’ve had more “sit-you-down” lessons than I care to count, it’s that staying afloat doesn’t mean pretending everything’s fine. It means recognizing that you’re being held, even in the chaos. That the same hands that shaped the oceans know how to hold you steady. And sometimes, just keeping your head above water is the most courageous thing you’ll do.

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t need a five-step plan or a perfect prayer. Just be honest. Be open. Stay afloat. Float on your faith, your hope, your love. Float on your resilience. And when you can’t float anymore, just really know that grace will carry you. You’re not out here alone. You're seen. You're heard. And you’re still here. That, in itself, is a miracle.