"There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way of death.”
Proverbs 14:12
Life Out of Balance
There’s a word on which I was pondering. You may have never heard it. It’s Koyaanisqatsi, Hopi word meaning “life out of balance.” A way of living so misaligned that it demands a reassessment of life.
That word names the quiet ache that trails you into every room. The hollow echo after the laughter fades. The strange loneliness that settles in even when you’re surrounded by noise and bodies and motion. It’s the feeling that you’ve wandered off the road yet keep insisting you know exactly where you’re going.
You tell yourself this is freedom. You call it youth. You dress it up as exploration. But be honest—why does it still feel empty? Why the constant need to prove you’re alive? Why does approval feel heavier than rejection?
There is an older story that mirrors your own. A son once asked his father for his inheritance early. In doing so, he didn’t just want the money—he wanted the life without the Father. He left home and found a distant country filled with bright lights and easy pleasure. And for a while, it worked. Until it didn’t.
However, like the modern world, many turn to drugs, alcohol and the pursuit of pleasures that works for a while, until they don't.
Returning to our story,
A famine came. It always does. And the son found himself feeding pigs, aching with hunger, realizing that what once felt like freedom had slowly turned into chains.
That, too, is koyaanisqatsi.
But the moment that changes everything is quiet and small: “He came to his senses.” Not a collapse, not a miracle, just clarity. A realization that the road he chose did not lead where he hoped. And that home was still home.
You are not beyond return. Not even close. That restlessness inside you is not proof that you’re broken, it’s proof that you’re still alive. It is the Spirit stirring beneath all your noise, calling you back to what is real. You are not suffering because you love freedom; you are suffering because you were made for more than endless escape.
I know the ache you carry. You want to be seen without being shamed. You want arms that open instead of eyes that accuse. You want to hear that it’s not too late.
And it isn’t.
The Father is already watching the horizon. Long before you reach the gate. Long before you clean yourself up. He recognizes you even at a distance—and He runs.
Come home.
Stop spending your energy assigning blame. That only keeps you stuck in the mud, rehearsing the past instead of choosing the future. Your parents failed you in ways. So did your friends. So did life. But only you can turn your feet toward the road that leads back.
“There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way of death.”
You don’t have to wait for everything to collapse before you change. You can turn now—before the marriages crack, before the bitterness hardens, before regret sets like concrete. Before your story becomes something you no longer recognize.
There is a robe with your name on it. A ring that says you belong. A table already set with joy and music.
Come home while your heart is still soft. While your strength is still in you. Before you wake up one day as a stranger to your own younger hopes.
You were never meant to drag your shame through endless nights, calling it independence. You were never meant to do life without a Father.
Turn around.
—Your older self,
who finally learned what it means to be found.
Read the full account at,
https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=luke%2015:11-32&version=ESV
Image by Copilot
