We’re constantly checking, refreshing, and measuring. We step on the scale after every workout, skim our inbox for that long-awaited reply, or sneak glances at our bank account hoping for a breakthrough. It’s as if we’re always looking for proof that our efforts are paying off, that our hard work is moving the needle.
But what if we let go of this habit? What if we focused on the work itself, without the anxious need to track every inch of progress?
St. Francis de Sales had a very particular approach for this kind of patience: “Have patience with all things, but first of all with yourself.” He understood that real growth often happens quietly, in the unseen hours, where effort meets trust.
This isn’t about giving up on your goals or ignoring feedback. It’s about resisting the urge to hover over your hopes, constantly checking for signs of life. After all, we don’t see our muscles growing in real time or feel our minds sharpening with every book we read. These things take time, and their impact often reveals itself only in hindsight.
This patience is deeply woven into the Christian tradition. The Catechism of the Catholic Church, echoing Scripture, teaches that “faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1, CCC 146). This is a straightforward reminder that not every good thing comes with immediate proof. Sometimes, the seeds you plant today will bloom long after you’ve stopped looking for them.
Consider the lives of the saints, many of whom labored in quiet obscurity, never seeing the full impact of their work.
St. Thérèse of Lisieux spent her short life in a Carmelite monastery, largely unknown to the world. Yet her “Little Way” of humble, hidden acts of love went on to inspire millions, making her a Doctor of the Church. She once wrote, “I am not afraid of my weakness. I am only afraid of relying on my own strength.” She understood that our worth isn’t measured by visible results but by the love and intention we pour into each moment.
Living this way is like being a farmer. After planting seeds, the farmer cannot rush the rain or command the sun. He works diligently, trusting that the fruit will come in its own time. In the same way, we’re called to do our part — to plant, water, and tend — without trying to control what only time and grace can bring.
So, the next time you feel the urge to check on your progress, pause. Breathe. Trust that the work you’re doing, however unseen or uncelebrated, is building something good. Like the farmer, you are planting seeds that will bloom in their season, even if you never see the full harvest. And in this quiet surrender, you might just find a deeper freedom — the freedom of flying blind.
