I Decided to Fast for 21 Days — Then This Happened

The decision didn’t come with a spreadsheet, a pros-and-cons list, or a strategic plan.

It arrived already settled in my body — the way some truths do, long before the mind demands an explanation.

There’s a precise verse :

“However, this kind does not go out except by prayer and fasting.” — Matthew 17:21

If you open most modern Bible translations, you’ll notice that Matthew 17:21 isn’t in the main text. The verse number often skips from 20 to 22, with a small footnote explaining that some manuscripts include it. This isn’t hidden. It’s printed plainly on the page.

The official reason is textual criticism: some of the earliest surviving Greek manuscripts don’t contain the line, while later ones do. Modern translators chose manuscript age over tradition. That explanation is accurate — but it isn’t the whole story.

Because the question isn’t whether the verse existed - It clearly did.

The more interesting question is why a teaching this simple keeps getting minimized.

Prayer and fasting require no institution.
No intermediary.
No product.
No platform.

They can’t be optimized, branded, or outsourced.
They move authority inward.

And historically, practices that return people to internal clarity tend to make systems uncomfortable — not because they’re wrong, but because they reduce dependence.

That’s not a dramatic conspiracy.
It’s a human one.

Complexity is easier to manage than simplicity.
Noise is easier to monetize than silence.
And practices that sharpen discernment don’t benefit structures built on distraction.

So when a verse about changing one’s internal state gets quietly footnoted instead of boldly proclaimed, I pay attention — not with suspicion, but with discernment.

Because Scripture doesn’t lose its power when a verse is removed.
But people can lose access to it when simplicity is framed as optional.

Some things don’t shift through force.
Some clarity doesn’t arrive through effort or strategy.
Some patterns only loosen when the internal state changes first.

Prayer aligns intention.
Fasting quiets interference.

Not as punishment.
Not as performance.

But as capacity.

What’s remarkable is not just the ancient spiritual affirmations of fasting, but the interest it’s drawing in modern health conversations too. One of my favorite podcast thought leaders, Steven Bartlett on The Diary of a CEO have dedicated episodes to fasting with accredited experts. In one, he speaks with functional health specialist Dr. Mindy Pelz about how fasting influences metabolism, hormonal balance, and overall health.

In another, Dr. Alan Goldhamer — a medically recognized fasting practitioner whose clinic has overseen thousands of supervised fasts — discusses how water-only fasting affects the body’s physiology, from energy and cognitive clarity to gut microbiome shifts.

These conversations may differ in language and context from spiritual fasting, but they converge on a shared observation: when the body’s usual patterns of consumption pause, physiological systems can reset, clarity increases, and deeper internal intelligence emerges — a theme that mirrors the lived experience of fasting across cultures and eras.

About a month ago, I sent a message to my best friend and business partner, Jen. It was casual. Almost a throwaway line — the kind you send when something has already landed, but you’re letting another person in on it.

She knows me well enough to hear what isn’t said.

When I tell her I’m thinking about something, it usually means the decision is already made. The space between thinking and doing is short.

She asked the practical questions.
Why 21 days?
Why now?

And the honest answer was: I didn’t have one that would satisfy the analytical mind.

There was no elaborate reasoning.
No performance goal.
No spiritual checklist.

Just a knowing.

Yes, there’s a biblical reference — Daniel fasting for 21 days. I was aware of it. But it wasn’t the driver. It was more like an echo. Something that made the decision feel familiar rather than forced.

I told her I’d start Monday, January 12, right after we returned from Mexico from one of our retreats. Three weeks felt contained. Intentional.

She declined — kindly — and joked that I’d probably be grumpy.

Fair.

Then January came.

The first sermon of 2026, on January 4th, was about trusting God’s way over human understanding. About prayer and fasting — not as control, but as alignment.

And then the pastor said it.

“As a community, we’re beginning a 21-day fast… starting January 12.”

The same day I had chosen weeks earlier.
The same day I’d casually declared to Jen back on December 7th.

I didn’t gasp.
I didn’t panic.
I smiled.

Not surprised. Just confirmed.

Moments like that don’t feel dramatic to me anymore. They feel familiar. Because this — knowing before explanation — has been a consistent pattern in my life.

And it’s important to say this clearly: That kind of knowing isn’t mystical superiority. It’s a skill.

People call it intuition.
Discernment.
Inner guidance.

But the phrase that has stayed with me the most — the one that finally made it make sense — is this:

"Knowing is a feeling."

We tend to treat knowing like an intellectual process. That’s knowledge.

Knowing lives in the body.

It arrives as a settled sense.
Not urgency.
Not excitement.
Not fear.

Just alignment.

And the more I pay attention, the more I notice how often we override that kind of knowing — especially in leadership — because we’ve been trained to trust explanation more than embodiment.

As the church outlined the 21 days of fasting, something else stood out to me.

They didn’t prescribe one way.

They offered choice.

And that matters — especially for leaders.

Because different nervous systems require different forms of restraint.
Different seasons call for different kinds of discipline.
And wisdom isn’t found in copying someone else’s fast — it’s found in honest self-assessment.

The invitation wasn’t “do the hardest thing.” It was “choose what supports alignment.”

There were four options.

A Complete Food Fast— a full pause from solid food. Not an act of endurance, but an act of listening. Water, broth, liquids. A quieting of digestion so energy can move elsewhere. Less demand. More awareness.

A Partial Food Fast, sometimes called a Jewish fast — abstaining from food for a set portion of the day. Skipping a meal. Waiting until sunset. A daily practice of restraint that builds rhythm without overwhelming the system.

A Selective Food Fast, like the Daniel Fast — removing certain foods rather than all food. Meat, sweets, bread gone. Fruits, vegetables, water, juice remain. A return to simplicity without deprivation.

And finally, a Soul Fast.

For those new to fasting.
For those with health considerations.
For those who already know the imbalance isn’t in food — it’s in input.

A soul fast asks different questions.

What happens when scrolling stops?
When television goes dark?
When constant stimulation finally pauses long enough for the nervous system to exhale?

It’s not about removing pleasure.
It’s about restoring choice.

That framing landed deeply for me.

Because real leadership work isn’t about adopting someone else’s discipline.
It’s about knowing what this body, this season, this nervous system needs.

For me, the choice had already been made before I even knew there were choices.

This will be a complete food fast — water and broth.

Not because it’s superior.
Not because it’s harder.

But because it’s what feels aligned right now.

I’m continuing daily prayer and Bible reading, something I’ve been consistent with almost a year now. At least one chapter a day. No rush. No pressure. I’m still in the Old Testament, which, if you’ve read it, you know takes its time.

Consistency matters more than speed.

I’m also committing to journaling — which may actually be the harder discipline for me.

I don’t naturally process on paper. Reflection lives in my body and my thoughts. So this part feels slower. More exposed. More honest.

There will be a light soul fast layered in too — fewer screens, no phone after 8 p.m., less external noise when my nervous system is already full.

On a practical note, my bestie Jen is mildly concerned — not spiritually, but logistically.

We’re traveling for a corporate training near the end of the fast. Long days. High presence. Out of town.

I’ve fasted before — 24 to 36 hours. I’ve traveled while fasting, even internationally.

This will simply be longer.

And this is the part people often miss:

Embodied leadership isn’t about pushing through the body’s signals.
It’s about listening to them — and adjusting without self-betrayal.

Leadership doesn’t fail because people lack discipline.
It fails because they’ve lost connection with their internal intelligence.

This fast isn’t about deprivation.

It’s about space.

Space to hear what’s already there.
Space to notice what surfaces when stimulation drops away.
Space to strengthen trust — not in certainty, but in alignment.

More to come. More to share. And if you want to join me, please let me know.

For now, this is simply the beginning.

Because there is a knowing placed in us that precedes explanation — and wisdom is learning to trust it.