There is a strange tension in modern mental health.
We have more information than ever before. More strategies, more frameworks, more tools. And yet, anxiety remains high, depression lingers, and attention feels fractured in ways that are hard to fully explain. Many people are not in crisis—but they are not well either.
If we are honest, a growing number of people live somewhere between agitation and numbness.
That has been true for me.
Over the last several years—especially following the loss of both of my parents—I’ve noticed something shifting internally. Some days are marked by irritability and frustration. Other days feel flat. Muted. Disconnected. Not fully depressed, not fully anxious—but not regulated.
And here is the uncomfortable part: I teach on this.
I talk about emotional regulation. I talk about spiritual formation. I encourage people to slow down, to engage silence and solitude, to create space for God and for reflection.
But knowing something and practicing it are not the same.
So I started something simple: a commitment to spend at least 50 intentional times in silence and solitude over the course of the year—and to track what actually changes.
Not just subjectively, but with some structure.
I plan to use the Daily Spiritual Experience Scale (DSES) as one way of measuring changes in spiritual awareness and engagement over time.
This is not a controlled study. It is not meant to prove anything universally.
But it is real.
And it raises an important question: What actually happens when we remove noise, slow our minds, and sit quietly before God?
From a clinical perspective, many of the symptoms we associate with anxiety, depression, and ADHD share a common foundation: dysregulation.
Anxiety often reflects chronic activation of the stress response system—persistent vigilance, tension, and anticipation of threat. Depression frequently involves emotional blunting, reduced motivation, and a diminished sense of meaning. ADHD includes difficulty regulating attention, impulse control, and sustained engagement (American Psychiatric Association, 2013).
Now place that nervous system into a world of constant stimulation.
Notifications. Screens. Multitasking. Background noise at all times.
Research has shown that high levels of media and technology use are associated with increased attentional difficulties and reduced psychological well-being (Rosen et al., 2014). Chronic stress without adequate recovery also contributes to long-term changes in brain function and emotional regulation (McEwen, 2007).
We are not just struggling because life is hard.
We are struggling because we are not giving our minds and bodies space to recover.
And silence is one of the most overlooked forms of recovery.
Silence is often misunderstood.
It is not just the absence of sound. It is the removal of competing input.
And when that happens, something shifts.
The nervous system begins to move out of a constant reactive state. The parasympathetic system—associated with rest, restoration, and regulation—has the opportunity to engage. Physiological arousal decreases. Cognitive clarity can improve.
Research on contemplative and meditative practices demonstrates measurable effects on attention, emotional regulation, and stress reduction (Tang, Hölzel, & Posner, 2015).
For individuals with anxiety, silence can reduce baseline tension. For those with depression, it can begin to create space for emotional awareness to return. For individuals with ADHD, it provides a counterbalance to constant stimulation, allowing attentional systems to recalibrate.
But silence alone is not inherently therapeutic.
Because silence without direction often turns into rumination.
Solitude is not simply being alone.
It is choosing to be alone without distraction.
And that distinction matters.
Many people are alone but never in solitude. There is always noise—music, podcasts, scrolling, background stimulation. These inputs function as avoidance strategies, keeping deeper thoughts and emotions just out of reach.
Solitude removes that buffer.
And when it does, what surfaces is often what we have been avoiding—grief, anxiety, internal tension, spiritual disconnection.
From a clinical standpoint, this is not a problem to fix. It is the beginning of processing.
Avoidance maintains anxiety. Suppression prolongs distress. When individuals allow themselves to experience internal states without immediately escaping them, they create the conditions necessary for psychological flexibility and emotional integration (Hayes, Strosahl, & Wilson, 2012).
This is why solitude feels uncomfortable at first.
But it is also why it works.
Silence creates space. Solitude reveals what is there.
Biblical meditation determines what fills that space.
Unlike secular mindfulness, which often emphasizes nonjudgmental awareness, biblical meditation is inherently directional. It involves intentionally focusing on the truth of Scripture—reading, reflecting, and internalizing it over time.
“On his law he meditates day and night” (Psalm 1:2).
This is not passive reading. It is active engagement.
From a psychological perspective, this aligns closely with principles of cognitive restructuring. The thoughts we rehearse shape our emotional experience. The beliefs we return to repeatedly become the lens through which we interpret reality (Beck, 2011).
For anxiety, biblical meditation can anchor the mind in truths about God’s sovereignty and care. For depression, it can challenge narratives of hopelessness and isolation. For ADHD, the structured, intentional focus provides a stabilizing anchor for attention.
It is not immediate.
But it is formative.
One of the challenges in spiritual practices is that change often feels subjective.
You think something is different—but it is hard to quantify.
That is part of why I am using the Daily Spiritual Experience Scale (DSES).
The DSES measures the frequency of everyday spiritual experiences—things like sensing God’s presence, experiencing gratitude, feeling guided, or perceiving connection with the transcendent (Underwood & Teresi, 2002).
This matters clinically.
Because research suggests that frequent daily spiritual experiences are associated with:
In other words, spirituality is not just theoretical. It is functional.
Tracking changes in DSES scores over time provides a way to observe whether intentional practices like silence, solitude, and biblical meditation are actually influencing lived spiritual experience.
Not just belief—but awareness.
For individuals with ADHD, this process can feel especially difficult.
The ADHD brain is wired toward stimulation, novelty, and engagement. Silence can feel intolerable at first—not because it is harmful, but because it removes the input the brain has come to rely on.
But this is precisely why it is valuable.
Research on mindfulness-based interventions suggests that attentional training can improve aspects of executive functioning and emotional regulation in individuals with ADHD (Zylowska et al., 2008).
Biblical meditation is not identical to these interventions, but it shares a core mechanism: sustained, intentional attention.
This means expectations need to be realistic.
You will get distracted.
Your mind will wander.
You will feel restless.
That is not failure.
That is training.
One of the quieter struggles many people face—especially after prolonged stress or loss—is emotional numbness.
Not overwhelming sadness.
Just… less feeling.
Silence and solitude create one of the few environments where that begins to shift.
When the noise decreases, awareness increases. And with that awareness, emotions—sometimes long suppressed—begin to surface.
This is particularly true with grief.
Grief does not process well in distraction. It requires space. Time. Stillness.
And often, it requires language.
Scripture—especially the Psalms—provides that language. It gives voice to experiences that are otherwise difficult to articulate.
Not as an escape from emotion.
But as a way of engaging it truthfully.
Most people already know they should slow down.
Most people know they are overstimulated.
Most people know something feels off internally.
The issue is not awareness.
It is implementation.
For me, this is not about creating content. It is about alignment. If silence and solitude are as important as I tell others they are, then they need to exist in my own life in a meaningful way.
Not occasionally.
Consistently.
If you are considering this, start smaller than you think.
Ten minutes.
A quiet place.
Minimal distraction.
A short passage of Scripture.
Read slowly. Sit with it. Pay attention to what comes up.
Expect resistance.
Expect distraction.
Expect discomfort.
And then return to it anyway.
Because over time, something begins to change.
Not all at once.
But meaningfully.
American Psychiatric Association. (2013). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (5th ed.).
Beck, J. S. (2011). Cognitive behavior therapy: Basics and beyond (2nd ed.). Guilford Press.
Hayes, S. C., Strosahl, K. D., & Wilson, K. G. (2012). Acceptance and commitment therapy: The process and practice of mindful change (2nd ed.). Guilford Press.
Koenig, H. G. (2012). Religion, spirituality, and health: The research and clinical implications. ISRN Psychiatry, 2012, 1–33.
McEwen, B. S. (2007). Physiology and neurobiology of stress and adaptation. Physiological Reviews, 87(3), 873–904.
Rosen, L. D., Lim, A. F., Felt, J., Carrier, L. M., Cheever, N. A., Lara-Ruiz, J. M., Mendoza, J. S., & Rokkum, J. (2014). Media and technology use predicts ill-being. Computers in Human Behavior, 35, 364–375.
Tang, Y. Y., Hölzel, B. K., & Posner, M. I. (2015). The neuroscience of mindfulness meditation. Nature Reviews Neuroscience, 16(4), 213–225.
Underwood, L. G. (2011). The Daily Spiritual Experience Scale: Overview and results. Religions, 2(1), 29–50.
Underwood, L. G., & Teresi, J. A. (2002). The Daily Spiritual Experience Scale: Development and validation. Annals of Behavioral Medicine, 24(1), 22–33.
Zylowska, L., Smalley, S. L., Schwartz, J. M., et al. (2008). Mindfulness meditation training in adults and adolescents with ADHD. Journal of Attention Disorders, 11(6), 737–746.

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