Wayward Reflection (004)
When You Think You Have Nothing Left to Give
Hey there, and welcome to another reflection piece. This one came after a therapy session this week. As always, writing helps me see what I believe. It forces me to turn emotions into language, and language into clarity. Before you begin, feel free to share, and if something here helps you, take it. If it doesn’t, leave it. Either way, we are glad you’re here. Enjoy.
Wait. Where Did The Bread And Fish Come From
If you’ve spent any time around church, the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 probably blends into the background. Five loaves, two fish, a crowd, a miracle. Most of us think we’ve squeezed all the meaning out of it.
Lately, I’ve been slowing down. Old wounds are surfacing, and prayer sometimes feels empty. This story struck me differently this past week. Many can resonate, having faced challenges that leave you questioning. This personal shift has made me see familiar stories in a new light.
When I entered the Catholic Church, I chose St. Ignatius of Loyola as my patron Saint. In this tradition, you notice who your soul leans toward through prayer, story, and experience. Some pick a saint who is similar to themselves or is tied to a profession or struggle. Sometimes the saint chooses you, simply because it feels like home. Shifting from the Gospel story to personal experience, I found a model for facing internal wounds.
Ignatius drew me in because he was a fighter. Before writing the Spiritual Exercises, he was a soldier who had to face himself after being injured and let God rebuild him. My own moral wounds aren’t physical (some are), but the pain is familiar. Like Ignatius, many of us face inner battles that challenge our spirits. We are called to let God work with what remains and trust the healing process, even when it feels impossible.
His story made me rethink the damage I usually avoid talking about. The kind of internal breaks that show up as shame. It made me realize rebuilding is a call to courage. It’s a chance to act. To let God into the rooms I usually keep locked.
I wrote a poem about those rooms here:
In that quiet space, slowing down finally let a single question rise from the Gospel this week and stay with me:
Where did the bread and fish come from?
Scripture says the bread and fish came from a boy. It was most likely a small lunch. Maybe for himself. Maybe for his family. Maybe to share if he felt like it.
But this boy didn’t bring a strategy.
He didn’t bring influence.
He didn’t bring enough to fix anything for anyone.
In a world dominated by expectations of big solutions, imagine a modern parallel. A single parent, perhaps, carefully packing the last of their groceries into a child’s lunchbox, aware that this meal might be the only one for the day. The parent, much like the boy, offers what little they have. And like that parent, the boy just brought what he had.
And he handed it over.
That question wouldn’t leave me alone. All week, during this first week of Advent, it kept circling back and dragged up a memory I hadn’t touched in years.
When I was a child, I remember upending my piggy bank, the restless clinking of coins landing, softened by the paper bills already on the table, as my mom hovered nearby, her jaw tense, eyes rimmed with worry. That winter, the electric bill threatened to leave us in the dark and cold. Our electricity was already turned off, with us all gathered in the living room, the fireplace going, and blankets nailed to the opening at the entrance, creating a barrier of warmth.
I gave her everything I had. The sum was small, but it was all my savings. Enough to turn the electricity back on.
That moment formed an ache, a moral injury in miniature. It wasn’t just coins and paper I surrendered; it was the sudden, crushing weight of responsibilities no kid should know.
I felt both a raw pulse of pride and a splintering confusion. I wanted to help, but I desperately wished I’d never had to. That’s what moral injury felt like in the early days. The pouring out of everything with trembling hands, and still feeling like you’ve failed to make a dent.
I carried that small, silent war for years. A child’s sacrifice thrown into adult battles.
It’s the quiet war between different truths that won’t leave you alone:
“I gave what I had.”
“I should’ve had more to give.”
“Why did the adults in my life let this happen?”
“Who would turn the power off in the middle of winter to a family with kids?”
“Why am I, as a 12-year-old, having to pay our electric bill?”
It’s the pain of thinking what you gave wasn’t enough, even though it was all you had. A wound that follows you into adulthood. The kind of moral wound that shows up when you blame yourself for a test you never signed up for and couldn’t have passed alone.
Where Moral Injury Begins
There is a group of us out here who weren’t asked to give much.
But we were asked to give everything.
Your clarity.
Your conscience.
Your instincts.
Your stability.
Your youth.
Your marriage.
Your sleep.
Your childhood.
Your sense of goodness.
Your belief in your own self-worth.
And you gave it up, because that’s what people like us do.
But moral injury comes later, quietly and brutally, whispering like a constant shadow you can’t shake off. Imagine this voice as a relentless critic, always hovering nearby, eager to point out your perceived failures.
The critic says, “You should’ve known better.”
It insists, “You should’ve done more.”
It pressures, “You should’ve seen it coming.”
It accuses, “You should’ve stopped it.”
It concludes, “You failed.”
This criticism isn’t the first wound. Instead, it is the persistent voice inside that shows up after, morphing ‘I did the best I could’ into ‘I wasn’t enough.’
And this is why the boy with the loaves and fish matters so much.
Because Jesus didn’t start with abundance. He started by searching the crowd for what felt laughably insufficient. In that gap between hunger and hope, something invisible shifted.
The scraps became a feast.
The miracle wasn’t only in the outcome. It was a boy’s decision in daring to look honestly at what felt probably like nothing, and offering it anyway.
God Always Starts With What’s in Your Hands
Wayward Purpose is a movement dedicated to empowering those who often feel overwhelmed by life’s burdens, helping them transform moral injury into moral leadership through faith, direction, and discipline.
It is for people who carry more than they say out loud. For people who think they should be farther along. For the ones who wake up with a head full of noise and a soul stuck between faith and exhaustion.
Our people are the ones who think:
“If God wanted to use me, surely He would’ve started with someone who had more to give.”
God starts with what’s in your hands.
Not what you wish you had.
Not what you regret.
Not what you think would finally make you worthy.
What’s actually there.
Your five loaves and two fish.
For someone reading this, maybe those loaves and fish look like:
Crawling out of bed with a heart cracked open.
Digging for enough energy not to snap at your kids when every fiber feels raw.
Holding onto faith like it’s an ember in a cold palm after a season of silence.
Finally, naming your exhaustion, letting the truth out.
Planting your feet and setting a hard boundary, voice shaking.
Perhaps, just whispering: “God, I don’t have much…but take all of it.”
But in these moments, your loaves and fish, while they may honestly look like nothing to you, may be exactly what God needs to multiply them to reach 5,000. I would like to offer you, if you made it this far, to take a moment to inventory your small offerings. Ask yourself:
What is one small act of courage you’ve shown recently?
How do you manage to show up, even when you’re feeling depleted? Exhausted? Destroyed?
What tiny spark of faith are you holding onto?
In what way can you express your truth today?
What is a simple boundary you need to set for yourself?
What brief prayer or intention can you offer right now?
Because that’s where it starts. That is where rebuilding begins. Rebuilding begins here. Doing the hard, boring, disciplined work.
God can still multiply whatever you bring Him.
Why This Matters for Moral Injury
Going through moral injury, whether it’s from combat, betrayal, hypocrisy, trauma, or just seeing too much suffering, can make you think your soul is too busted up for God to use. You think you need to get stronger before you can pray, or to gain clarity before you move. You think you need to offer something impressive.
We shared 10 signs of moral injury here:
But that’s not how the Gospel works. That’s not the pattern at all.
Jesus didn’t say, “Bring Me something impressive.”
He said, “Bring me what you have.”
To bring this together, that’s the whole Wayward Purpose thing in a nutshell:
1. Faith: Name what’s real first.
No masks. No hype. No pretending. “Moral injury” is not a diagnosis. It’s a naming. A naming of the internal fracture between what you valued and what happened. It’s what happens when your conscience gets bruised.
2. Direction: Offer what you have and walk forward.
Leadership starts when you're willing and open, not when you’re all put together.
That’s the Wayward direction:
From inward collapse → to outward purpose.
From isolation → to community.
From moral injury → to moral leadership.
And it starts with the smallest thing you can give. Your five loves and two fish. It begins when you notice where your internal compass gets knocked sideways, and if you can spot the moments it happens.
3. Discipline: Build small structures and frameworks you can trust.
Not motivational highs. Not shame-based toughness. Simple, repeatable habits keep life steady on hard days.
Try a daily check-in: sit quietly, breathe deeply, and ask, ‘How do I feel right now?’
Set a small intention, like ‘I’ll approach today with patience’ or ‘I’ll connect with a friend.’
Try daily praying, meditating, or writing three things you’re grateful for.
These actions build resilience and stability.
And For The Ones Who Feel Like They Have Nothing Left
If you feel like you’re holding scraps and trying to call it a life, this is for you.
If you’ve given until you’re spiritually empty, this is for you.
If you’ve carried hidden guilt for years, this is for you.
If you’ve been functioning instead of living, this is for you.
If quiet, recurring thoughts of escape have started to show up, this is especially for you.
You don’t heal all at once.
You don’t rebuild overnight.
You don’t multiply anything by force.
If you felt this, even in the place you try to hide, don’t stay alone with it.
If that’s just reading and thinking, good.
If that’s reaching out quietly, good.
If that’s taking the next small step in community, coaching, or structure, good.
This is what Wayward Purpose exists for. To help the people who carry the most transform moral injury into moral leadership through faith, direction, and discipline, so that suicide is never an option.
Your next step is simple. Bring what you have. And put it in God’s hands.