When the Battle Gets Personal

When the Battle Gets Personal

When the Battle Is No Longer Abstract

Spiritual warfare is one of those phrases that can sound dramatic from a distance and devastating up close. From the outside, it often gets reduced to a metaphor—something symbolic, something theological, something safely discussed in small groups and sermons. But when it moves from theory into lived experience, it becomes something else entirely. It becomes weight. It becomes exhaustion. It becomes the slow realization that what is happening around you is not merely circumstantial, but deeply spiritual.

I used to hear about spiritual warfare and nod politely. I believed it existed, but I didn’t yet understand what it felt like to be on the receiving end of it—repeatedly, persistently, and personally. Over the last five years, that has changed. The attacks have not only increased; they have intensified. They have grown more subtle, more relational, more invasive. And perhaps most dangerously, they have become harder to explain without sounding paranoid or defensive.

But spiritual warfare has a way of bypassing our vocabulary and heading straight for our nervous system.

I know I am not a perfect person. I have never claimed to be. But I do know my spiritual DNA. I know what aligns with truth and what doesn’t. I know what produces peace and what produces confusion. Scripture teaches us that truth brings light, and light brings freedom. There is a certain unmistakable calm that accompanies truth—even when truth is difficult. Transparency, though uncomfortable, has a rhythm of peace to it. Deception, on the other hand, always feels rushed, foggy, and loud.

When something is not of truth, those who are spiritually sensitive feel it first in the body before they ever articulate it in the mind.

As I reflect on this past year—now that 2025 has come to a close, and today is Christmas Day—I find myself standing in a place I never anticipated. The only thing I feel fully safe doing right now is writing. Not performing. Not defending. Not explaining myself to systems that have already decided who I am. Just writing. Quietly. Honestly. Carefully.

Writing has become my refuge—not because I want to retreat from the world, but because words are the one place where truth still feels intact.

Over the past five years, things have happened to me that do not happen normally. I say that carefully. These are not inconveniences or misunderstandings; they are events that, taken individually, might be dismissed—but taken together, form a pattern that is impossible to ignore. One could write an entire book detailing them. In truth, I likely could. But I won’t. Not because the story lacks truth, but because telling it openly would invite retaliation—not only toward me, but toward my children. And no story, no matter how righteous, is worth placing them in harm’s way.

This is one of the lesser-discussed costs of spiritual warfare: the silencing effect.

The enemy does not always need to destroy you. Sometimes, it is enough to isolate you, intimidate you, or make the consequences of speaking too high to bear. Scripture reminds us that we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against powers and principalities. That distinction matters, because it explains why the pressure so often comes through people, systems, and institutions rather than obvious evil.

Which raises a painful question: why has this world become so hurt and hateful?

Why does it seem increasingly determined to snuff out voices that speak plainly, gently, and truthfully?

I don’t have a clean answer. But I do know this: when pain goes unhealed, it seeks expression. And when truth threatens fragile power structures, it is often labeled as disruption rather than discernment.

What I do know is that I am tired.

In the last few years, I volunteered countless hours at my local church. I showed up. I served. I gave my time freely, believing—perhaps naively—that the church would be the safest place to do so. But a recent event changed that. A false accusation, delivered without proper inquiry or context, led me to withdraw entirely from volunteering. Not out of bitterness, but out of self-preservation.

Scripture warns us of false witnesses. It also teaches us about the power of the tongue—that words can give life or deal death. What I experienced reaffirmed that truth in a way no sermon ever could.

The aftermath was not only emotional. It was physical.

Extended stress drove my cortisol levels through the roof, and the result was a week-long flare of gout—sharp, humbling pain that forces you to slow down whether you want to or not. Lying awake at night, foot throbbing, mind racing, I found myself asking a question that kept repeating: To what end?

Why do these attacks keep coming?

One unexpected lesson has emerged from all of this: the terrifying strength of spoken words. When words are untethered from truth, and especially when they come from authority or leadership, they do not remain contained. They multiply. They distort. They take on a life of their own. For those who are emotionally or spiritually sensitive, the damage is exponential. A single careless accusation can grow into an entire narrative, reshaping reputations and relationships far beyond the original conversation.

Because of this, I have vowed—more fiercely than ever—to be careful with my own words. To ensure that I do not harm others through assumptions, shortcuts, or emotional reactions. Leadership, Scripture reminds us, comes with stricter accountability. That accountability should make us slower, not faster, to speak.

One principle I now hold tightly is the practice of asking the five whys before taking action that impacts another person’s life. Why was this concern raised? Why now? Why this method? Why this conclusion? Why this urgency? When leaders ask these questions honestly, motivation reveals itself. Patterns surface. And often, what initially appears righteous begins to look reactive, fearful, or self-protective.

In my case, that process was never applied.

Instead, the situation pushed me further into retreat—back into my cave, so to speak. And right now, this cave is quiet writing on Christmas Day. These words are all I feel comfortable offering to the world at the moment. You, as the reader, get to decide whether they carry value. I am no longer interested in convincing anyone.

As I sit here, alone this Christmas, I am acutely aware that I am likely not the only middle-aged man doing the same. The family we long to create, the belonging we hope to feel, often remains just out of reach. The quiet grows louder. The questions deepen. And the temptation to harden—to close off hope entirely—becomes very real.

I have bent significantly under the pressure of these spiritual attacks. I have not fully broken—but I have come close. Scripture speaks of a bruised reed not being broken and a smoldering wick not being snuffed out. That imagery feels painfully accurate. The flame is small. Flickering. But it is still there.

I do not know what the future holds. I do not know how long this season will last. But I do know this: even a small flame is enough to light the way forward. Hope does not need to roar; it only needs to remain.

If these recent experiences end up providing value—not only to me, but to others who feel similarly worn down—then perhaps they have not been wasted. I am tired of being the one to dump on, yes. But I am not yet done believing that truth, handled gently and courageously, still matters.

When Weariness Becomes the Strategy

There is a particular cruelty to spiritual attacks that arrive when you are already tired. Not tired in the way a vacation can fix, but tired in the way that comes from sustained vigilance—years of choosing restraint over reaction, truth over convenience, silence over self-defence. This kind of weariness is not accidental. It is strategic.

Scripture gives language to this reality. The apostle Paul speaks of being “hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair.” That verse is often quoted triumphantly, but rarely do we pause long enough to feel the tension inside it. Perplexed but not in despair suggests a prolonged season of confusion—one where clarity does not arrive quickly, and relief does not come on schedule.

That is the space I have been living in.

Spiritual warfare does not always come with obvious villainy. More often, it disguises itself as misunderstanding, process, policy, or “just the way things are done.” It wears professional language and measured tones. It hides behind good intentions. And because of that, it can be far more disorienting than open opposition.

When the attack comes from an identifiable enemy, you can brace yourself. When it comes through people you once trusted, it fractures something deeper.

One of the most unsettling patterns I’ve noticed over the past few years is how attacks escalate when a person begins to simplify their life around truth, when performance is reduced, when image loses its grip. When integrity becomes non-negotiable, it is as if clarity itself provokes resistance. Not because clarity is wrong—but because it exposes what others would prefer remain unexamined.

Jesus experienced this constantly.

The more plainly He spoke, the more threatened the religious systems around Him became. His words were not chaotic; they were clarifying. And clarity has a way of destabilizing systems built on ambiguity and control. Scripture records that even those who admired Him often struggled to accept the implications of what He said. Truth demands a response, and not everyone is willing to give one.

What makes prolonged spiritual attack especially exhausting is that it often denies you the dignity of resolution. There is no clean ending. No public correction. No moment where everyone suddenly understands what really happened. Instead, there is silence. Distance. A quiet reshaping of relationships that leaves you wondering whether it was ever safe to be known at all.

This is where isolation creeps in—not dramatically, but gradually.

At first, isolation feels like rest. A relief from explaining. A break from vigilance. But over time, it becomes something else. It becomes a narrowing of the world. Fewer conversations. Fewer invitations. Fewer places where your full self feels welcome. Scripture warns us that isolation can be dangerous, not because solitude is wrong, but because prolonged isolation distorts perspective. Even strong minds begin to turn inward in unhealthy ways when deprived of honest, grounded connection.

And yet, isolation is one of the enemy’s most effective tools.

If he cannot destroy your character, he will attempt to exhaust your courage. If he cannot silence your truth, he will try to make it feel too costly to speak. This is why discouragement often follows integrity so closely. Not because integrity failed—but because it worked.

There is a passage in Scripture that speaks of the enemy prowling like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Lions do not usually attack the strongest member of the herd. They target the isolated, the injured, the lagging. Not out of cruelty, but efficiency. Understanding this does not remove the pain—but it does remove some of the shame.

Feeling targeted does not mean you are weak. It may mean you are exposed.

What complicates this further is when the place you expected refuge becomes another source of harm. The church, at its best, is meant to be a shelter—a place where truth is handled carefully, where restoration is prioritized over reputation, and where humility outweighs urgency. But the church is also made of people. And people carry unhealed wounds, fears, ambitions, and blind spots into every sacred space they enter.

When accusation enters the church—especially false or unexamined accusation—it carries disproportionate weight. The language is spiritual. The authority feels moral. And the recipient often feels they must choose between defending themselves and appearing Christlike.

That is not a fair choice.

In my own experience, what hurt most was not the accusation itself, but the speed with which conclusions were drawn. There was little curiosity. Little listening. Little willingness to sit in uncertainty long enough for the truth to surface. Scripture tells us to be quick to listen and slow to speak, yet the modern instinct—especially within structured organizations—is often the opposite.

This kind of moment forces an internal reckoning: Do I stay and endure, or do I step back to preserve what remains of my health and peace?

For me, stepping back became necessary. Not because I no longer valued the church, but because I valued my spirit enough to protect it. There is a difference between sacrificial suffering and unnecessary harm. Jesus endured the cross, yes—but He also walked away from crowds, avoided certain traps, and refused to engage with every accusation thrown His way.

Wisdom sometimes looks like withdrawal.

The problem is that withdrawal, even when wise, can feel like loss. Identity becomes entangled with service, and when service ends abruptly, a void opens. Questions rush in. Did any of it matter? Was I misunderstood all along? Is faith supposed to feel this lonely?

These questions are not signs of failure. They are signs of engagement. People who do not care do not wrestle with this deeply.

One of the quieter dangers of spiritual exhaustion is that it tempts us to reinterpret our past through the lens of our pain. We begin to wonder whether the good we did was naïve, whether the trust we offered was foolish, whether the openness we lived with was a liability rather than a gift. This is where bitterness tries to reframe wisdom as weakness.

Scripture offers a different lens.

It tells us that God sees what others miss. That nothing given in sincerity is wasted. That even unseen faithfulness has weight in the Kingdom. But those truths often land softly when what we crave is vindication. And so the temptation is to harden—to protect ourselves by lowering expectations, narrowing empathy, and retreating permanently.

I have felt that temptation keenly.

There are days when the thought of re-engaging feels exhausting, when trust feels expensive. When hope feels impractical. And yet, there is something in me that resists full collapse. A small, stubborn resistance that refuses to believe this is the end of the story.

Perhaps that resistance is faith in its most honest form.

Not confident faith. Not victorious faith. But enduring faith—the kind that says, I do not understand this season, but I will not surrender my integrity to survive it.

Scripture does not promise that every battle will resolve quickly. Many of its heroes lived with unanswered questions, unresolved tensions, and delayed justice. What it does promise is presence. That God draws near to the broken-hearted. That He does not despise weariness. He stores tears and honours perseverance.

This season has stripped away many illusions. It has clarified what matters and what does not. It has narrowed my focus, sharpened my discernment, and deepened my compassion for others who carry invisible battles. If nothing else, it has taught me this: spiritual strength is not loud. It is quiet, steady, and often hidden.

And so I remain here—not healed, not resolved, but still standing.

How to Stand When the Attacks Do Not End (and the Hope That Remains)

At some point in a long season of spiritual pressure, the question inevitably shifts. It is no longer. Why is this happening? But how do I keep standing without losing myself? Not how do I win? Not how do I explain myself better? But how do I remain whole—faithful, tender, and honest—when the attacks keep coming, and resolution feels distant.

Because there is a kind of endurance that can quietly hollow a person out if they are not careful.

When spiritual warfare stretches across years rather than moments, it rarely looks dramatic. Instead, it looks like attrition. The slow erosion of joy. The temptation toward cynicism disguised as wisdom. The instinct to lower expectations—not because hope is gone, but because disappointment feels safer than desire. And perhaps the greatest danger is not that we stop believing in God, but that we slowly stop believing He is good toward us.

Scripture never shames this struggle. In fact, it gives it language. The psalms are filled with honest prayers that ask how long, not because faith is weak, but because faith has stayed long enough to feel the weight of waiting. God does not rebuke those questions. He records them.

The Bible also makes something else clear: spiritual maturity does not mean spiritual immunity. The people most faithful to God often endured the longest seasons of misunderstanding, opposition, and delay. What separated them was not the absence of attack, but the way they learned to stand.

Strength Begins by Anchoring Identity Before Seeking Resolution

One of the first places a spiritual attack aims is identity. If the enemy can convince you that you are the problem, that your character is suspect, that your voice is dangerous or untrustworthy, the burden becomes crushing. This is why Scripture repeatedly separates who we are from what is happening to us.

David understood this separation intimately. When everything around him collapsed—when people turned against him, when circumstances pressed in from every side—Scripture says, “David was greatly distressed… but David found strength in the Lord his God” (1 Samuel 30:6, NIV). Strength came before rescue. Identity came before outcome.

This matters deeply in prolonged spiritual warfare. When explanation is denied and clarity is delayed, anchoring identity in God becomes an act of resistance. You stop negotiating your worth with people who do not have the full story. You stop internalizing accusations that were never fully examined. You remember who named you first.

Isaiah captures this promise with quiet power: “Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength… they will walk and not be faint” (Isaiah 40:31, NIV). Renewal is not the absence of fatigue—it is divine replenishment in the middle of it.

Standing begins not with fixing the situation, but with remembering who you are before God.

Strength Grows Through Daily Renewal, Not Endless Replaying

Another battlefield of spiritual warfare is the mind. Accusations echo. Conversations replay. Imagined defences multiply. The body rests, but the mind does not. Scripture addresses this directly, reminding us that transformation comes not through denial, but through renewal.

Paul writes that we are transformed by the renewing of our minds, not by allowing every thought unrestricted access. This renewal is an active practice. It requires discernment. Not every thought deserves attention. Not every emotional reaction requires validation.

Instead, Scripture invites us to filter what we dwell on: “Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure… think about such things” (Philippians 4:8, NIV). This is not naïve positivity—it is spiritual protection.

Strength grows when we stop rehearsing what harmed us and begin rehearsing what anchors us. When truth—not pain—becomes the primary interpreter of reality, that shift does not happen overnight. It happens through daily, sometimes hourly, redirection. Quiet discipline. Gentle refusal.

It is here that rhythms matter more than rescues. Writing became one such rhythm for me—not to persuade or perform, but to remain honest. To keep truth flowing through my spirit when external spaces felt unsafe. Other rhythms followed: rest without guilt, prayer without polish, Scripture without urgency.

Even Jesus withdrew regularly—not to escape responsibility, but to preserve connection. Scripture tells us He often went to lonely places to pray. If rest were a failure, Jesus would not have modelled it.

Strength Is Preserved by Guarding Words and Refusing to Harden

One of the most painful lessons of spiritual warfare is learning how powerful words truly are. Scripture does not exaggerate when it says, “The tongue has the power of life and death” (Proverbs 18:21, NIV). Words released without truth do not remain contained. They multiply. They reshape narratives. They wound far beyond their original moment.

James compares the tongue to a spark that can set an entire forest ablaze (James 3:5–6, NIV). And when words have been used against us unjustly, the temptation is to retaliate—to correct loudly, defend aggressively, or withdraw completely.

Spiritual strength grows when we choose a harder path.

Paul offers a sobering instruction: “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up” (Ephesians 4:29, NIV). Sometimes, that means speaking carefully. Other times, it means choosing silence—not out of fear, but out of wisdom.

This restraint is not a weakness. It is an authority. It is refusing to become what wounded you. It is guarding the heart from hardening while still honouring truth.

James reminds us that perseverance must finish its work so that we may be mature and complete, lacking nothing (James 1:4, NIV). Perseverance is not grim endurance—it is hope with muscles. It is continuing to love without becoming brittle. Continuing to believe without becoming naïve.

Do the Attacks Ever End?

Not entirely. But they lose their power.

Scripture is honest: “In this world you will have trouble” (John 16:33, NIV). The promise is not escape, but victory of a deeper kind. Paul urges believers to “put on the full armor of God” so that they can stand—not flee—against the enemy’s schemes (Ephesians 6:11, NIV). And after everything has been done, Scripture does not say to conquer, but to stand (Ephesians 6:13, NIV).

Over time, the attacks change. They become less convincing. Less consuming. You recognize patterns sooner. You disengage earlier. You stop giving every battle your presence.

What also changes is you.

You become less reactive. Less easily destabilized. More discerning. You learn that not every accusation deserves a response and not every conflict requires your participation.

And when strength feels nearly gone, Scripture offers one final paradox that has carried me more than once: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9, NIV). Weakness does not disqualify us—it becomes the place God works most clearly.

A Quiet Hope

As I close this reflection, I am still tired. That has not magically disappeared. But I am also still here. Still believing and still writing. Still holding space for the possibility that these experiences—painful as they have been—will one day serve a purpose larger than survival.

Scripture says that God heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds (Psalm 147:3, NIV). Healing is not always fast, but it is faithful.

I hold a quiet hope that next Christmas will look different. That the silence will be replaced—not with noise, but with love. That I will be surrounded by a woman who loves me, by family that feels real and present, by a connection that does not require defence or explanation.

The flame is small right now.

But it is still burning.

And sometimes, that is more than enough.