Spiritual Belly

I’ve often felt like I live in the in-between. Too conservative to be considered liberal. Too liberal to be accepted as conservative. Too abstract to fit in with the scientists. Too rational to be fully at home among the artists. I can’t seem to find a label that fits. Every time I try one on, it shrinks in the wash or stretches out in all the wrong places. And this in-betweenness is especially true when it comes to my spiritual life. There was a time when I thought certainty was the goal—knowing exactly what I believed, being able to defend it, explain it, codify it. But the older I get, the more I find myself less concerned with having answers and more drawn to the quiet space where mystery lives. I’m not trying to rebel or deconstruct for the sake of it. I’m just being honest. The boxes no longer hold. It’s not that I’ve lost my faith. If anything, something deeper has been forming under the surface—something quieter, but more resilient. But it doesn’t look like the faith I was rais...

I'm writing this the day before we go on vacation, and as usual, that comes with a low hum of anxiety. It’s not that I don’t want the break - I do - but stepping away from routine always leaves me a little unsteady. What makes it worse is leaving work in a messy state. As a software engineer, I’m used to structure, control, and things either working or not. But this week, the code I’ve been working on has felt tangled, unfinished. Two projects, both interdependent, both not quite stable. I could feel the tension building in my body. The more I tried to clean things up, the more my mind began to spin. The Inner Spiral Code is unforgiving. It either works or it doesn’t. And for those of us who tend toward perfectionism, that precision can be a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it’s satisfying—elegant logic, clean structure, things clicking into place. On the other hand, it’s a trap. There’s always something more to clean up. A variable to rename. A logic branch to refactor. A comm...

I grew up as a quiet kid in a Pentecostal world—a world that expected noise. Loud prayers. Loud praise. Loud declarations of faith. The more visible and vocal you were, the more spiritual you seemed to be. At least, that’s how it felt. But I wasn’t loud. I didn’t shout when I prayed. I didn’t jump up and down during worship. I didn’t have the kind of outward fire that others celebrated. And for a long time, I thought that meant something was wrong with me. In that environment, spirituality came with a volume knob—and mine was always turned too low. It took me years to realize that what looked like silence on the outside was actually a deep and attentive listening. That maybe God didn’t need me to be louder—maybe He had made me quiet on purpose. That realization didn’t come easily. It came through wounds and questions, through loss and longing. And eventually, it came through mystery—the kind of mystery that doesn’t offer easy answers, but instead invites us into something richer. Somet...

You may have seen the headlines this week. Los Angeles is once again filled with the sounds of protest—marching feet, chants, sirens. The tension is rising as reports circulate about ICE conducting raids, rounding up undocumented people in the early hours of the morning. The National Guard has been called in. Fear is in the air—on all sides. And maybe, like me, you’re trying to make sense of it all. It’s hard to know what to feel, or even what to think. The noise gets loud—on the news, online, in our group chats and families. Everyone seems certain. Everyone seems angry. But beneath it all, I think many of us are just… heartbroken. Tired. Overwhelmed. Maybe even afraid to speak, in case we say the wrong thing. Just... caught in the middle. That’s where I’ve been sitting lately: not in a place of certainty, but in a place of curiosity. I don’t want to add to the shouting. I want to ask a question: Is there a way to talk about immigration—a truly human conversation—that respects the law ...

This blog is named The Spiritual Belly because I believe my weight journey is more than just about improving my physical health. I believe our bodies also carry wisdom, and if we're listening, they can guide us toward truth. Lately, I’ve found myself staring at that same stalled number on the scale, feeling a familiar mix of frustration and curiosity. On the surface, it seems like a physical issue: eat less, move more, check the result. But something deeper is being asked of me—something spiritual. It's as if my body is whispering, "Slow down. Pay attention. I'm trying to tell you something." The Body And Its Many Meanings Growing up in America, I was shaped by a particular vision of the body—one that sees it primarily as a project. You manage it, discipline it, upgrade it. If your body is thin, muscular, or beautiful, you’ve “succeeded.” If not, well… maybe you just didn’t try hard enough. In this view, the body becomes a sort of moral scoreboard. Health becomes ...

Lately, I’ve found myself watching conversations with a kind of ache in my chest. Not the quiet ache of shared sorrow, but the clenched, restless kind—the kind that arises when people stop listening and start defending. Whether it’s a post online, a comment thread, or even a family gathering, so many of our conversations about big things—truth, justice, God, morality—feel more like battles than bridges. We defend our beliefs like territory, as if being wrong would unravel our sense of self. I get it. I’ve done it. Beliefs aren’t just thoughts; they’re often stitched into our history, our wounds, our hopes. But I keep wondering: what if the way we’ve learned to “argue” or “debate” isn’t the only way? What if, instead of trying to win, we tried to understand? Not just to tolerate, but to truly hear—like soul-to-soul listening? There’s a kind of conversation I’ve been dreaming about. A way of dialogue where the goal isn’t conquest, but co-creation. Not to prove who’s right, but to uncover...