There was a time I was unwell. I had been in a terrible road accident and spent quite a while in the hospital recovering. When I was finally discharged, my cousin told me something that has stayed with me ever since. She said that while I was in the hospital, she had gone on a fast—she couldn’t remember whether she gave up cigarettes or alcohol—but she had stopped one of them and offered that act as a kind of sacrifice so that I could get better.
And I did heal.
I’ve thought about that moment so many times since then. Not just because it was touching, but because it made me wonder—what is it about denying yourself something that makes people feel closer to God? What is it about fasting that makes prayers feel different, more powerful, or more likely to be heard?
If one believes in God, it would make sense that fasting is seen as a way to purify oneself before approaching something holy. But if we say there is no god listening—if we say the universe doesn’t respond to prayer—then what drives people to fast? Why do so many still feel that quiet sense of meaning when they do it?
I think fasting, in any form, is about control. It’s about finding something you can do when everything else feels uncertain. My cousin couldn’t perform surgery or predict the outcome of my healing, but she could give something up for me. She could take her own small suffering and turn it into love in motion—a silent act of hope.
And maybe that’s what fasting really is. It’s less about reaching a divine ear and more about reaching the limits of our own hearts. About saying, “I care so much that I’m willing to go without.” That simple human impulse—to express love through sacrifice—is older than any religion.
Whether or not there’s a god listening, that kind of act still means something. It changes the one who gives, and sometimes, it comforts the one who receives.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe we don’t need a supernatural explanation for why it feels sacred when someone fasts for us. It’s sacred because it’s love, stripped of all noise and language. It’s someone saying, “I can’t fix this, but I’ll walk with you through it.”
And that, in its own quiet way, is a kind of miracle.