Kun Faya Kun

on weariness, surrender, and the quiet work of God

Be. And it is.

Lately, I’ve been feeling something heavy, not the kind of heavy that draws attention or is a cause for alarm, but the quiet kind that slowly builds up until you realize your shoulders have been tense for weeks and your heart has been tired for longer than that.

Tasks are due, the house doesn’t feel like peace, and all the things I thought would bring me joy, clarity, or direction have started to lose their shine, leaving me sitting in a familiar silence I haven’t quite learned how to speak about.

I don’t feel fulfilled.

Not in the way I thought I would at this stage, not in my work, not in the things I build, not in the titles I carry, and some days, I wonder if all the things I’ve been pouring myself into are actually pouring back into me, or if I’ve just been moving from task to task, project to project, hoping that meaning will meet me halfway.

I uninstalled Instagram. Not because of storage issues (maybe sha…), not for a digital detox trend, but because it became a substitute for stillness, a place I ran to when I didn’t want to sit with what I was feeling. I stopped posting on my WhatsApp too, not because I had nothing to say, but because I was tired of saying things that distracted me from the truth I hadn’t yet faced.

And the truth is, I’m tired — in body and spirit.
But more than tired, I’m searching.
For God — or whatever it is that steadies a man when everything he’s trying to carry starts slipping through his fingers.

In the middle of this slow unraveling, I stumbled on something. Or maybe it was handed to me.

I was on YouTube one evening, just trying to feel something that wasn’t pressure, and I came across a song — Kun Faya Kun, performed live by the Berklee Indian Ensemble.

I wasn’t even looking for anything deep, but the sound caught me like a gentle breeze, not dramatic, just honest and full, like surrender wrapped in music.

It moved through me before I could even understand it, and by the time I paused the video to check the lyrics, I knew I had found something that would stay with me.

Kun Faya Kun — Be, and it is.

I sat with that for a looonnngg time.

Because for the first time in weeks, I felt a soft kind of peace, the kind that shows up and says, “you don’t have to force this anymore.”

That phrase has been living with me ever since, quietly rewriting how I think about movement, control, purpose, and rest. I’ve spent so much time trying to become, trying to work hard, show up, build, prove, perform, love deeply, serve well, that I forgot how much of life is still out of my hands.

There’s only so much pushing one man can do before something breaks — and I don’t want it to be my soul.

I’ve spent years believing that if I just kept going, if I just kept doing the right things, praying the right prayers, posting the right captions, writing the right sentences, something would click — that clarity would arrive like a divine package at my doorstep.

But maybe that’s not how this works.

Maybe the answer is not in doing more, but in letting go of the need to control the timing, the outcome, the shape of things. Maybe the answer is in resting into the reality that not everything in life is earned through effort. Some things are received through surrender.

I think about Mary sometimes — the mother of Jesus — how at the wedding in Cana, she turned to the servants, not with a long explanation or a plan, but with a sentence that still echoes today: “Do whatever He tells you.” No panic, no pressure, just trust. She didn’t try to fix the lack of wine herself. She just made space for obedience. For divine timing. For whatever came next.

It reminds me too of that old Beatles song — “Let it be.”

Simple words. But powerful.

Let it be.
Let what must unfold, unfold.
Let what must leave, leave.
Let what must become, become.

There’s something sacred about that kind of letting go. About trusting that life doesn’t need your hands on every dial. That sometimes, your only work is to show up with open hands and step back.

And maybe, just maybe, God still speaks in the same way He always has: not in noise, but in stillness, not through panic, but through presence, not in your performance, but in the quiet space where you finally let go and whisper, “I can’t do this alone.”

Be. And it is.

I don’t have a happy ending to this story. Not yet.
I’m still behind on my tasks. I am still dealing with things I don’t know how to fix. I still wake up wondering if I’ve missed something vital in this life I’m trying to build. But something in me feels a little lighter now. Not because anything has changed externally, but because I’ve stopped trying to prove I’m unshakable.

And if you’re reading this, and you’re somewhere in that space too — tired, in-between, unsure — I hope you know that it’s okay to pause. It’s okay not to have the language for what you’re feeling. It’s okay to uninstall the distractions. To go quiet. To stop posting. To disappear a little. To be here.

Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is nothing at all, and trust that the seeds you planted when you were still hopeful are still growing, even if you can’t see them yet.

You are still becoming, even in the stillness.
You are still seen.
And God — even in this silence — is still saying the words that first brought you into being:
Be. And it is.

A growing man.