April 18 | When Wonder Returns: A Magician's Journey Through Faith & Burnout
Have you ever felt the fire that once defined you slowly fade to embers? In this deeply personal exploration, a professional magician and father of two shares his journey through burnout, depression, and the unexpected path back to rediscovering passion through faith and perseverance.
The Moment Magic Disappeared: Recognizing Burnout
I remember the exact moment I lost my magic.
Not a trick. Not a sleight of hand. The actual magic – that invisible thread connecting performer and audience, that sacred space where wonder lives.
It wasn't dramatic. Just an ordinary Tuesday last winter, standing in my kitchen at 2 AM, mechanically practicing a card flourish I've done thousands of times. The cards cascaded perfectly between my fingers – and I felt absolutely nothing.
Seventeen years of dedication. Thousands of performances. And suddenly, it was just cardboard moving through space.
That night, I put the deck down and whispered something I'd never admitted before: "I don't know if I can do this anymore."
For those who've never lost your life's passion, this might sound melodramatic. But for anyone who's ever woken up to find that the fire that once defined you has gone cold – you know this particular kind of devastation.
The Hidden Weight of Passion Lost
How do you explain to your children that Dad's gift, the thing that made their eyes light up with wonder, now feels like an empty ritual? How do you tell your church community that while you're standing in worship, your soul feels wrapped in fog? How do you admit that your prayers have become desperate negotiations: "God, just give me back that feeling"?
Depression doesn't arrive announcing itself. It creeps in like evening shadows, gradually darkening everything until you can't remember what daylight looked like.
My calendar kept filling with bookings, but each performance became an elaborate act of its own – not just creating illusions, but pretending I still cared about creating them.
When Children See Through Our Illusions
My son Carter found me one night after a particularly wooden performance, sitting silently in my study.
"DadaMan?" That's what they call me – this nickname my kids invented that I wear like a badge of honor. "Are you sick?"
I considered lying. That's what adults do, right? Shield the children.
"I'm not sick," I said carefully. "I'm just... tired."
"Not like regular tired though," he said. Not a question.
"No. Not like regular tired."
He sat across from me, those serious eyes studying my face. "Is it your back hurting again?"
The chronic pain – that familiar companion from an old performance injury – was actually the least of my concerns. Physical pain has edges. This hollowness was borderless.
"It's more like..." I searched for words a twelve-year-old might understand. "Remember when you loved basketball more than anything, and then suddenly stopped wanting to play?"
He nodded slowly.
"It's like that. Except magic isn't just something I do. It's who I am."
Carter considered this with surprising gravity. Then, with the devastating simplicity of children, asked: "Have you prayed about it?"
I almost laughed. If he only knew how many hours I'd spent on my knees. How many silent drives home had become wordless pleas.
"Yeah, buddy. A lot."
"And?"
"And sometimes God's answer isn't what we expect."
When Showing Up Feels Impossible: Faith Beyond Feelings
When my agent called about a high school assembly, every instinct screamed to decline. Teenagers are the most unforgiving audience imaginable – hypersensitive to inauthenticity, armed with smartphones, developmentally wired to project indifference.
"I think I need to take a break," I told her.
"It's a Christian school," she countered. "They specifically requested you."
That subtle reminder that my work carried meaning beyond entertainment was enough to make me reluctantly agree. But driving there, my back spasming from stress, all I could think was: I have nothing left to give these kids.
The auditorium was exactly what you'd expect – scuffed floors, folding chairs, fluorescent lighting entirely unsuited to creating atmosphere. The students filed in with predictable teenage reluctance, a sea of skeptical expressions.
I began my routine robotically, mouth forming words while my mind remained disconnected. The first few tricks received obligatory, scattered applause.
The Unexpected Spark: When Wonder Returns
Then came the linking rings – one of the oldest illusions in magic. Simple, elegant, profound. Metal passing impossibly through metal.
As I held the final linked chain of silver, something unexpected happened. A girl in the front row who hadn't looked up from her phone suddenly raised her head. Our eyes met – and hers widened with genuine astonishment.
Time slowed. This wasn't polite appreciation. This was true wonder – the thing I'd stopped believing I could create.
In that microsecond of connection, something shifted inside me. Not a dramatic rekindling of passion, but a small ember glowing faintly in the darkness.
After the show, that same girl approached me, phone nowhere in sight.
"I needed that," she said quietly. "Something that doesn't make sense. Something... impossible."
"The trick?" I asked.
She shook her head. "The reminder that there are still things that can surprise me."
I realized she wasn't talking about the mechanics of an illusion. She was talking about hope.
The Healing Power of Shared Brokenness
"I've been going through some stuff," she continued, studiously examining the floor. "Everyone keeps saying it gets better, but it just... hasn't."
The parallels weren't lost on me. Here was this teenager, carrying her own private darkness, finding a moment of relief in the same thing I'd recently lost faith in.
"Want to know a secret?" I said. "I almost didn't come today. I almost convinced myself that none of this mattered anymore."
She looked up, surprised by the confession.
"What changed your mind?"
"Honestly? Nothing. I just showed up anyway."
As I packed up my props, the school chaplain approached. "That girl you were speaking with? Her father died three months ago. That's the first time I've seen her truly engage with anything since the funeral."
Beyond Performance: The Purpose Behind the Magic
Driving home, my chest felt both heavier and lighter simultaneously. The weight of responsibility – that my work, even performed mechanically, could touch someone in their darkness. The lightness of remembering why I started this journey.
It wasn't about the applause. It was about creating doorways to wonder in a world that desperately needs transcendence.
When I got home, I did something I hadn't done in months. I took out a fresh deck of cards and began creating – not practicing, not performing – but playing.
Alina found me an hour later, cards scattered across the kitchen table.
"DadaMan's making magic again," she announced matter-of-factly, before climbing onto my lap to watch.
The Slow Return: Rediscovering Passion Through Practice
The passion didn't return all at once. There was no dramatic moment when the heaviness suddenly lifted. Recovery came in fragments – small moments of connection that gradually accumulated.
I still have days when the spark flickers dangerously low. When my back pain flares and every movement requires deliberate choice. When prayers feel like they're hitting a ceiling.
But I've learned something critical about both faith and passion: They're not just feelings. They're practices. Commitments you make and remake every day, especially on the days you don't feel like it.
The Spiritual Discipline of Showing Up
The scripture talks about perseverance producing character, and character producing hope. I used to think that meant pushing through hardship. Now I understand it differently. Perseverance isn't gritting your teeth through pain. It's showing up – truly showing up – even when you feel empty, trusting that the practice itself becomes a kind of prayer.
Sometimes we pray for deliverance from our dark seasons, when what we really need is transformation within them.
Finding Your Way Back to Wonder: Practical Steps Forward
I don't know who needs to hear this today. Maybe you're a parent who can't remember the last time you felt anything but exhaustion. Maybe you're an artist who's lost sight of why your work matters. Maybe you're simply someone going through motions that once felt sacred and now feel hollow.
Here are some lessons I've learned on my journey back from burnout:
Keep showing up. Not just physically – that's the easy part – but with whatever fragment of your heart remains open.
Look for tiny embers, not roaring flames. Recovery comes in moments, not dramatic revelations.
Share your struggle selectively. Find people who can hold your uncertainty without trying to fix it.
Embrace the practice, not just the feeling. Do the thing you love even when you don't feel love for it.
Find meaning in service. Sometimes our emptiness creates space for others to find fullness.
Pay attention to unexpected connections. The girl with the phone wasn't part of my plan, but she was essential to my healing.
Allow yourself to play again. Not for performance, but for the simple joy of exploration.
The Magic Beyond the Burnout
The magic isn't gone. It's just waiting, patiently, for you to remember how to see it again.
And when you catch that first glimpse – that small ember glowing in the darkness – protect it fiercely. Not because it's fragile, but because it's precious.
This is how we find our way back to wonder. Not in spectacular moments of divine intervention, but in the faithful practice of paying attention to the impossible happening right before our eyes.
The cards still move between my fingers. Ordinary objects transformed by intention into something extraordinary.
Just like us.
An Invitation to go Deeper….
If today’s message spoke to you, join the FaithLabz 30-Day Prayer Challenge and strengthen your connection with God’s unshakable love. You are never alone—let’s grow together!
