Why Your Prayers Feel Like a To-Do List (And How Doodling Changes That)
I remember sitting at my desk, and in front of me was a list. Not a to-do list for my week—a list of everything I need to do. Right now. This week. This month. This season.
Seventeen children with severe language disorders scattered across the mainland. Reports that need writing. A family member in crisis—multiple suicide attempts. My husband. My sons. My side business. Everything demanding something from me.
And somewhere at the bottom of that mental list: pray.
Except prayer isn't something I do when I have time. Prayer is something I think about doing, feel guilty for not doing, and promise myself I'll do better at tomorrow. It's another item on an impossible list.
I'm exhausted. Weary to my bones. I can feel the depletion the way you feel a physical ache—in my shoulders, my jaw, my chest. Everything I'm holding is getting heavier.
So I do what I've always done. I sit down and I work harder. I make the list longer. I optimise my schedule. I stay up later. I drink more coffee. I tell myself the solution is more discipline, more time management, more doing.
But the list never gets shorter. And God gets quieter.
The Prayer That Became a Fountain
One morning, I finally break.
I sit down with my list—the real list, not the cleaned-up version I show people—and I write everything down. Every responsibility. Every crisis. Every obligation. Every weight I'm carrying.
And then I ask God the question I should have asked weeks ago: "These are all the things I need to do. But what do YOU think I should do?"
The answer comes quietly, but it's unmistakable: Trust me. I will provide.
Three words. That's all. But something shifts in me. It's like the tightness in my chest loosens just enough to breathe. Like I'm finally putting down something I've been carrying so long I'd forgotten it was even there.
In that moment of surrender—of actually trusting instead of just talking about trust—something happens that I can only describe as a release. It's like drawing a fountain. Water comes pouring out. Living water. And with it comes clarity about what has to go.
The lucrative contract. The identity I've built as a "successful speech therapist." The income that felt like security. The control I thought I had.
All of it has to go, because this person I love—this person in crisis—has to come first. And there's no amount of money, no amount of professional achievement, that's worth losing a life.
Proverbs 14:23 says it clearly: All hard work brings a profit, but mere talk leads only to poverty.
I'd been talking about faith while frantically working myself to exhaustion. I'd been saying I trust God while clinging white-knuckled to my career, my income, my identity. All that hard work—and it was leading me toward spiritual poverty. Toward a dried-up well. Toward a place where prayer was just another task on an impossible list.
The Weariness That Demands Surrender
Matthew 11:28 has never felt more real to me: Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
I was weary. Not just tired—weary in my soul. The kind of exhaustion that comes from trying to carry things you were never meant to carry alone.
And the burden wasn't just the work. It was the weight of thinking I had to fix everything. That my hard work, my expertise, my effort could somehow save this person. That if I just worked hard enough, stayed organised enough, did enough—I could manage the crisis, keep my career, keep the income, keep it all.
But you can't think your way to God. You can't fix your way to Him. You can't work hard enough to earn rest.
The only way to rest is to stop working and actually listen.
Why Your Prayers Feel Like Tasks
Here's what I realised in that season: when your left brain—the logical, anxious, fix-it part of you—is in overdrive, your capacity to actually hear God diminishes.
You can pray. You can go through the motions. You can even feel like you're doing it "right." But there's no real connection because half your mind is still working through the to-do list. Half your heart is still in crisis-management mode. Half your spirit is still trying to solve what can only be solved by surrender.
Prayer becomes another thing to accomplish. Another box to check. Another way you're failing because you're not doing it perfectly, consistently, or long enough.
This is why so many Christian women tell me their prayers feel hollow. Not because God isn't listening. Not because they don't love Him. But because they're approaching prayer the same way they approach everything else—as a problem to solve, a task to complete, a metric to track.
I prayed for 30 minutes today. Did I do it right? Was I focused enough? Did I hear anything? If not, I must be doing it wrong.
More work. More striving. More exhaustion.
The Practice That Changed Everything
What changed everything for me was learning to doodle while I prayed.
Not because doodling is magical. Not because it's a creative hack. But because the simple act of putting a pen to paper and moving it without thinking—it quiets the left brain just enough. It occupies the anxious, planning, fixing part of your mind so the listening part can finally come online.
When you doodle, you can't be simultaneously solving problems. You can't be working through your to-do list. You can't be performing spirituality for an imaginary audience. You're just... present. Moving. Creating small marks on paper.
And in that space—in that small, simple, unhurried space—God's voice becomes audible again.
Not because He's changed. Not because you've suddenly become more worthy of hearing from Him. But because you've finally stopped long enough to listen.
Proverbs 14:23 reframes itself in this light: the hard work that brings profit is the hard work of surrender, not the hard work of doing more. The profit is the peace that comes from finally, finally trusting.
From Weariness to Rest
Matthew 11:28 isn't a promise that everything will become easy if you just believe hard enough. It's an invitation to actually stop. To come to Jesus weary and burdened and let Him give you rest.
Not rest from your responsibilities. Not rest from the crisis. Not rest from the hard things that life requires.
But rest from the illusion that you have to fix it all. Rest from the exhaustion of carrying what was never meant to be carried alone.
And the strange gift of it all? When you finally surrender, when you finally let go of the career or the income or the identity or the control—the provision shows up. Not always in the way you expected. Not always as comfortably as before. But it shows up.
Because you're not walking in your own strength anymore. You're walking in His.
Your Prayer Doesn't Have to Be Perfect
If you're reading this and thinking, Well, that's beautiful, but I don't have time for doodling. I don't have time to sit down. I barely have time to breathe—I get it. I was there.
But that's exactly the point.
You don't need five hours of uninterrupted silence. You don't need a perfect quiet time routine. You don't need to have it all figured out. You just need five minutes. A pen. Paper. And the willingness to sit long enough to actually listen instead of just talk.
Doodle with God isn't complicated. It's not another spiritual practice you have to master. It's simply: Prepare your heart. Ask God your real question. Doodle while you wait. Reflect on what comes.
That's it.
And in those five minutes—when you're not trying to be the perfect pray-er, when you're not checking boxes, when you're not performing—something shifts. You finally hear what God's been trying to tell you all along.
Trust me. I will provide.
The Fountain Flows
That moment of surrender—of asking God what He thought I should do instead of just telling Him what I'd already decided—released something in me. Like water from a fountain, coming from a deeper well than my own effort could ever access.
And that's the truth I want you to know, friend: Your prayers don't feel like tasks because you're doing something wrong. They feel like tasks because you're approaching them the way you approach everything else—with your left brain in charge, your willpower driving the bus, your anxiety behind the wheel.
The invitation isn't to work harder at prayer. It's to stop working so hard at everything long enough to actually meet God.
And sometimes, that meeting happens with a pen in your hand and a blank page in front of you, while your nervous system finally, finally lets go.
Let's Stay Connected
I'd love to hear from you!
What is God refining in you right now?
Have you tried Bible journaling before?
What's one "old thing" you're ready to let go of?
Leave a comment below or tag me on Instagram [@creativityreleased] — I read every message, and I'd be honored to pray for you.
And if you want more meditative Bible journaling videos, creative devotionals, and inspiration for your faith journey,subscribe to my YouTube channeland let's create together.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for showing up. Thank you for trusting God in the fire.
You're being refined for something beautiful.
🧰 Tools I Love (Optional for Your Quiet Time)
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