Why I Started Still the Fire

The story of a soul returning slowly, imperfectly, and with purpose.

As I sit here, pondering how I can begin what I hope to be the first of many entries for Still the Fire, I find myself searching for the right words — and then it hits me: I am not starting this blog because I have the answers. On the contrary, I don’t have any.

But perhaps that’s exactly the point.

To find the answers we long for, we usually need a place to pause — a place to sit and think slowly, honestly, and in the light of Scripture. Still the Fire is not a platform, a manifesto, or a megaphone. It is a quiet place. A place to ask better questions, to remember what ultimately matters, and to resist the slow drift into cynicism that modern life so often demands of us.

The name Still the Fire holds layers of meaning. For me, it reflects two movements — inward and upward.

“Still” speaks of stopping becoming quiet and present in the moment. In a world that demands constant noise, movement, opinions, and performance, to still ourselves is a radical act. It’s an act of listening, of breathing, of stepping out of the current.

The “Fire” is what lies within: the passion, the desire, the restless energy to become who we are meant to be, to live with conviction, to pursue what is good, and to return to God. It is the fire of conscience, of calling, of hope. It is also the fire of God’s presence, like the burning bush that is never consumed.

To Still the Fire, then, is to pause in the presence of what burns within not to extinguish it, but to reverence it. To sit before the fire and listen. To let it illuminate rather than consume.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

– Psalm 46:10 

To this day, I’m still not entirely sure how to explain my journey back to Christ — especially through the Catholic Church. I wasn’t raised in a religious home. Like many, I grew up in a secular world where Christianity was more cultural than spiritual: Christmas, Easter, the occasional hymn in a school assembly, but no real faith. That changed around two years ago.

I began having recurring, vivid dreams. In each one, a snake would appear — always lunging, always biting my hand. The pain felt so real that when I woke, my hand ached as if I’d actually been bitten. These dreams were deeply unsettling, and they arrived at the same time as something else: a growing pull in my conscience to look into God.

It began with curiosity, watching Christian YouTube videos like those by Casey Cole and Bishop Robert Barron. But they didn’t just answer questions. They deepened the hunger. The more I watched, the more I felt drawn to something deeper — something truer. Eventually, I bought my first Bible and started reading. And then the final dream came.

This time, I wasn’t in a forest or a dark place. I was in bed. The snake that had haunted me was inside my pillowcase. I trapped it, tightened the end, and suddenly — it vanished. It didn’t bite me. It evaporated. I’ve never seen it in my dreams again. I don’t claim to understand all of this, but I know that from that point on, something shifted in me. The fire that had been flickering, that strange inner pull, began to burn more clearly.

Since that last dream, my life has not suddenly become clear or perfectly aligned. There was no dramatic emotional outburst. But there has been a persistent, nagging draw inside me toward something I had never even considered in my wildest dreams: the majesty of Christianity, through the Catholic Church.

I am not going to claim I have been a perfect Christian during these two years. There have been moments of weakness, moments of laziness, times when I stopped reading the Bible or stopped thinking about Christianity altogether. But during each of these occasions, I have always felt empty inside. Somehow, I always find my way back.

Imagine my process like the tide against the shore. When it was full tide, I was consuming everything I could: YouTube videos, books, podcasts, the Bible itself. When the tide was out, I drifted. Life became busy again. I fell back into old habits, in both my personal and professional life. The next promotion, the title, the status, those were what I was chasing. But I can say, hand on heart, that each time I did, it felt hollow.

Now I have reached a point in my life where I no longer care about the next promotion at work or what people think of me. These secular concerns now feel, quite frankly, silly to me. Instead, I find myself on a new path. An exciting one.

I am currently undertaking a BD in Divinity with the University of London and a BA in Theology with Durham University. Both are part-time and pursued alongside my full-time job. I do not share this to boast, but to underline how seriously I take this calling. My desire is not only to grow spiritually and personally, but to deepen my understanding of the faith through disciplined study. Scripture teaches, “The beginning of wisdom is this: Get wisdom, and whatever you get, get insight” (Proverbs 4:7, RSV-CE), and that has stayed with me. The fire within me compels me to pursue Christ with everything I have, and for me, that includes both heart and mind. Whatever obstacles may come, I believe this path is worth it.

I first attended church just last month, on Easter Sunday, and what a feeling it was. I am so glad I went, even though the thought was daunting at first.

I think it is fair to say that even through the blips, even when I turned away, the pull was still there. The fire was still burning beneath the surface. As Saint Paul writes, “For the gifts and the call of God are irrevocable” (Romans 11:29, RSV-CE). There is something about truth that lingers, even when you try to forget it. Over time, that relentless draw overtakes you. You find yourself submitting, not through emotional intensity, but through longing. A longing to return to stillness. To ask better questions. To not give up simply because I have failed to stay consistent.

I desire to become a priest one day. But I understand that I first need to go through RCIA before I can formally explore that path. I have not yet spoken to the diocesan vocations director. That is not because I lack conviction, but because I want to approach this journey with the right foundation. Until then, I feel called to focus on study, writing, and my personal pursuit of the faith, trusting that in time I will be ready to take the next step in service of Christ.

That is why I am here now.

That is why Still the Fire exists.

Not because I have found all the answers, but because I am finally ready to stay with the questions, and to do so publicly, imperfectly, and with hope. As Saint Paul encourages, “He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ” (Philippians 1:6, RSV-CE).