I I am not patient.
I rush through books because I hate not knowing how they end. I refresh tracking numbers like it will make my package arrive faster. I don’t like waiting in lines, waiting for people, waiting for answers. And when it comes to relationships, I’ve always taken the same approach—if I like someone, I don’t wait. I dive in headfirst, no hesitation, no brakes.
So when I decided to give up sex for Lent, it felt out of character. It felt like a joke, honestly—like something I would try for the challenge but never fully commit to. Because I have never been religious. Not even a little.
And to be completely honest, I used to judge people who were.
I thought faith was something people clung to because they were afraid of thinking for themselves. I saw religion—especially Catholicism—as restrictive, as something built on rules and guilt and shame, designed to keep people in line. I was the type to roll my eyes at purity culture, to argue that you didn’t need religion to be a good person, to insist that faith was just an illusion of control.
And yet, here I am. Exploring faith for the first time in my life. Not because someone forced me to, not because I was guilted into it, but because something inside me—something I don’t fully understand yet—told me to stop and listen.
At first, giving up sex was just about discipline. A test of self-control. But now, it’s becoming something else.
The other night, we had a sleepover. No kissing, no touching, no blurred lines. Just two people lying next to each other, talking, laughing, existing. And for the first time in a long time, I felt… peace.
Not restlessness. Not distraction. Not the constant, nagging question of what happens next? Just stillness. Presence.
And yet, I can’t shake the confusion.
Because if he wasn’t interested in me—if I was just convenient—why was he still here? Why stay the night when there was no promise of anything physical, no easy gratification? I’ve been in situations where I was just a placeholder, just the easy choice until something better came along. And this doesn’t feel like that. But I also don’t understand what it does feel like.
Is he confused, too? Is he trying to figure this out the same way I am?
I think we’re both scared. Scared to push forward, scared to pull away. Scared of what happens if we acknowledge the fact that we might actually like each other—because that would mean opening ourselves up to something bigger, something harder, something real.
And I think, in some way, we’re both trying to be faithful.
I used to think faith was about certainty—about knowing the answers, about being sure of what you believed. But the more I explore Catholicism, the more I realize that faith isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about learning to sit with the questions. It’s about choosing to believe in something bigger than yourself, even when you don’t fully understand it yet.
And maybe that’s what this is. Maybe that’s why he’s still here. Maybe faith—whether in God, in love, or in another person—isn’t about the immediate gratification of knowing right now where something is headed. Maybe it’s about patience.
And for the first time in my life, I’m trying to have some.
I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know if we’ll get past this in-between space we’ve created or if we’ll eventually go our separate ways. But I do know that for the first time in a long time, I feel clarity.
I’m learning to be still. To listen. To trust.
And maybe that’s the whole point.
Lamentations 3:25-26, ESV
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Confessions of a Hot Mess is the personal work of Emily Hess. The opinions expressed in this column, as well as those published in The Nevada Sagebrush, are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Sagebrush or its staff.
