You can't navigate what you can't see.
For years, I kept crashing into the same spiritual obstacles without understanding why. I'd commit to a discipline with zealous intensity, only to abandon it weeks later when life got complicated. I'd grip my convictions so tightly during conflict that I'd damage relationships, then swing the other direction and compromise on things that mattered. I was wobbling—constantly course-correcting, responding to tensions—but doing it unconsciously. I couldn't see my own pattern.
I was steering blind.
Self-awareness isn't vanity or narcissistic navel-gazing. In discipleship, it's a navigation tool—one of the most important you have. You need to know how you specifically tend to wobble. What tensions pull you most strongly? What are your default responses under pressure? Where do you consistently over-correct?
Without this knowledge, you're navigating by feel in the dark, hoping you don't crash before you figure out where you are.
Every disciple has a wobble signature—a recognizable pattern in how they respond to spiritual tensions. Think of it like a fingerprint or handwriting style. No two are exactly alike, but there are identifiable patterns that show up consistently. Some of this is temperament, some is history, some is current context. All of it creates a pattern you need to understand.
I began mapping my tensions against those three continuums: conviction versus compromise, certainty versus doubt, zeal versus wisdom.
I discovered I lean naturally toward conviction. I'm a "hold the line" disciple. When faced with competing values, my instinct is to stand firm on principle. I'd rather be right than comfortable. My strength is clear boundaries—I won't be easily swayed by cultural pressure. My vulnerability is becoming rigid, judgmental, disconnected from reality. I can prioritize being "right" over being loving.
On the certainty-doubt continuum, I lean toward certainty. I'm an "anchor down" disciple. When faith gets difficult, my instinct is to double down on what I know. I emphasize God's promises, stand on Scripture. My strength is providing stability. My vulnerability is becoming brittle—unable to hold mystery or ambiguity, dismissing legitimate questions as "just doubt."
And I discovered something crucial about my default under pressure: when life gets hard, I don't carefully navigate tensions—I revert to my default. Pressure pushes me from healthy conviction into rigidity, from stable certainty into false confidence. The pressure narrows my vision. I can't see that I'm over-correcting. I'm just surviving.
This revelation changed everything. I needed to know my default before pressure arrived, so I could recognize it in the storm.
The real question became: How do I know if my wobbling is productive navigation or destructive drift? Because both involve movement, both involve tension, both feel uncomfortable.
I learned that productive wobble has direction. Over time, I could look back and see growth, see I was more Christ-like, understood myself and God more deeply. The wobble hadn't been random—it was navigation through real conditions toward a real destination.
Productive wobble also maintains connection. I stayed engaged with God, Scripture, community, myself. I struggled, but struggled in relationship. Destructive drift isolates—pulling away from people and practices that help you navigate.
I recognized the warning signs of drift in my own life. The gap between who I presented myself to be and who I actually was had been widening. I'd lost my spiritual appetite. I'd become defensive when people offered input. Most telling: my story had stopped. When people asked about my spiritual life, I referenced old stories—things God did years ago. I had nothing current to share because nothing current was happening.
I was living off yesterday's bread.
The awareness itself became the first step back. Once I saw the drift, I could respond to it. I got honest with trusted people about where I actually was. I reconnected with Scripture, community, prayer—not with ambitious overhauls, but simple reconnection. I asked for specific accountability and made one course correction at a time.
The discomfort when I started actively navigating again told me I was doing something right, not wrong. My pattern wasn't my prison—it was my map, telling me where to pay attention, where to build support, where to expect challenges.
The harbor pilot doesn't fight against the ship's natural handling characteristics—they learn them and work with them. That's what I was finally doing: learning my vessel, understanding how I respond, anticipating my tendencies so I could navigate them intentionally.
The wobble is inevitable. But whether it becomes productive navigation or destructive drift—that's largely in your hands.
