Prayer plays an essential part in the Christian life. Through prayer, we grow in relationship with God. This powerful communication invites us to engage in intimate conversation with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit and can be as simple as any conversation we might have with someone we love. And yet, anyone who has tried to pray consistently knows that prayer can also feel hard, mysterious, or even intimidating. At times, it becomes something we avoid because we don’t quite understand how to pray or because we lack the motivation to begin. Saints across the centuries have referred to this experience as a dark night of the soul, a spiritual emptiness that can make prayer feel impossible.
It is a difficult place to find oneself: a prayer desert where even the desire to pray seems elusive. The silence feels heavy. The words won’t come. What was once a comfort and delight now feels manufactured. This experience, though deeply personal, is far more common than we believe. That is why it is so important to talk about it so that we do not fear we are alone or somehow spiritually weak because we struggle to pray.
My recent prayer desert looks rather ordinary. My rosary lies in the same spot where I placed it weeks ago, the crucifix peeking out from beneath the jumble of beads. A daily devotional sits next to it, equally untouched. The inanimate bookmark cannot judge me if I glance at the date, but I know. I know how long it has been. What started as a busy day quickly turned into a busy week. Before I realized what was happening, the habit of prayer disappeared faster than the initial effort it took to build it.
Did I forget about God? No. Was I angry with him or consciously rejecting him? Also no. Something else was at play. When unexpected stressors arise, my instinct freezes rather than responds. Prayer, which requires a turning outward and upward, feels like one more thing I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to do. I get mired in my own wounds, locked in interior rumination.
The Church, in her wisdom, teaches us that there are many ways to pray. Christ himself modeled prayer for us by retreating to quiet places, praying the Psalms, and inviting his disciples to pray with him. We shouldn’t approach prayer as a rigid formula but an active relationship. That truth comforts me, especially when familiar prayer suddenly feels untenable. I am reminded of the powerful intimacy of silence. Some of the best moments in my marriage and with intimate friends are those moments of shared silence, when there is no need to speak because presence is enough.
In these seasons of spiritual dryness, returning to the most fundamental understanding of prayer helps me begin again. Prayer is not about performance. It is not about eloquence or emotion, and it is definitely not checking a spiritual box. Prayer is about presence, about God’s presence with us, even when we cannot feel it, and our willingness, however small, to remain open to him.
When you don’t know where to begin, the first step is simply to acknowledge the prayer desert. You are in good company. Saints such as Teresa of Ávila, John of the Cross, and Thérèse of Lisieux all wrote candidly about seasons of dryness and interior darkness. Saint Teresa of Calcutta struggled with spiritual dryness for long periods of time. The saints teach us that in these moments we should lean into Christ ever more. These experiences are not signs of failure, but rather, invitations to a deeper, more trusting faith. A faith that relies less on feeling and more on surrender.
Another essential step is to lean on your spiritual sisters and brothers. When I have been unable to pray, I have asked for prayer. I have asked others to pray with me, or even to pray for me when I could not find the words myself. Allowing others to carry you spiritually is not a weakness; it is an act of humility and trust in the communion of saints and our spiritual friends.
This truth became especially real to me during a recent health crisis. It left me physically exhausted and emotionally depleted. My days were filled with sleep between medications and treatments, and the toll on my spiritual life was discouraging. I simply could not pray. I’ve often heard that the longest distance a person can travel is between the mind and the heart, and I believe it. Intellectually, I knew God was with me. But I did not feel his closeness. In that state, it required a leap of faith simply to believe that I was beloved, even when I could not acknowledge it interiorly.
Later, when I spoke about this experience with my spiritual director, she offered a profound consolation. She reminded me that even in the depths of spiritual dryness, I was still praying. The whispered aspiration, “Jesus, I trust in you,” counted. On my weakest days, the mere mention of the Holy Name of Jesus was enough. She called these utterances the sighs of my soul: the prayer of a heart that knows and yearns for God even when words won’t come.
For those struggling to pray, a few practical suggestions may help. Start small. Smaller than you think is necessary. Sometimes a single sentence uttered breathlessly is all we need to assure us that God is, in fact, near. Use the prayers of the Church when you lack your own words: the Our Father, the Hail Mary, a Psalm, or even just making the Sign of the Cross. Let sacred music, Scripture, or silence become prayer for you. And above all, be gentle with yourself. God is not waiting for you to “get it right.” He is waiting for you to show up. Imperfect, but present.
Praying when it is difficult to pray is not about forcing ourselves into spiritual productivity committed by rote, but about fidelity to the One we love. It is about trusting that even when prayer feels far off, God is at work. Sometimes, the most honest prayer we can offer is simply this: “Lord, I don’t know how to pray right now, but I am here.” And that, in itself, is the deepest prayer of the soul.
Maria Morera Johnson is an author, speaker, and digital missionary, inviting women into hope-filled midlife through A Beautiful Second Act.
Photo by Ümit Bulut on Unsplash
