Becoming SPIRIT lead.

If I don’t walk in the Spirit, the flesh will control me. That’s not a dramatic line to make people feel something for a moment—it’s a spiritual law I’ve watched play out in real time, in my mind, in my reactions, in my schedule, in my habits, and in the quiet choices nobody sees. There is no neutral setting in the human soul. There is no spiritual “pause button” where nothing governs you. Something is always holding the remote. Something is always pressing buttons on your attention, selecting what you focus on, amplifying what you feel, and steering what you do next.

And if I do not intentionally place that remote into the hands of the Holy Spirit, my flesh will grab it without hesitation.

That’s why I’ve come to describe this life as Spirit controlled—like a remote control. Not controlled like a machine. Not controlled like a puppet. Not manipulated, not emptied of personality, not stripped of emotion. I mean governed. Directed. Led. Tuned. Calibrated. I mean I’m no longer letting my impulses, my wounds, my appetites, my fears, my need for approval, or my need for comfort dictate what happens next. I’m no longer letting “whatever I feel right now” become the loudest voice in the room. I’m letting the Spirit of God lead my life from the inside out.

Because life doesn’t pause while I decide who’s in charge. There is no neutral ground where nothing governs you. Every thought, reaction, desire, and habit is being shaped by one of two forces: the Spirit or the flesh. And the flesh does not politely wait while I grow. It doesn’t stand aside while I “figure things out.” If the Spirit is not intentionally followed, the flesh doesn’t compete—it inherits authority by default. Where the Spirit is not consulted, impulse becomes king. Where prayer becomes optional, emotion becomes authoritative. Where Scripture becomes information without obedience, desire becomes the interpreter. And slowly—quietly—without an explosion or a headline—my inner life starts being led by the very thing Christ came to crucify.

I’ve learned something sobering: it is possible to love Jesus sincerely and still be flesh-led practically. It’s possible to worship loudly and still react like the old man in private. It’s possible to know the language of the Kingdom while being governed by the instincts of self-protection. It’s possible to have faith as a belief system and still not live in daily surrender. The flesh does not retreat because I believe correct doctrines. It withdraws only when it is denied authority. The flesh doesn’t leave because I attended church. It loses ground when I walk in the Spirit—consistently, intentionally, moment by moment.

And walking in the Spirit is not an abstract idea reserved for “mature believers.” It’s not mystical poetry. It is daily leadership. It’s choosing alignment over impulse. It’s choosing obedience over comfort. It’s choosing truth over desire. It’s the discipline of yielding the steering wheel when my flesh wants control. And when that discipline is absent, the flesh doesn’t just influence me—it governs me.

That’s why so many believers feel trapped in cycles they cannot explain. They pray but remain restless. They worship but still feel pulled toward old habits. They read Scripture yet react emotionally in ways that contradict what they claim to believe. They love the Lord, and yet their inner life feels like constant tension—effort without peace, activity without transformation, motion without direction. That confusion is not random. It is often the pain of divided leadership: a life that belongs to God in confession but is still ruled by the flesh in practice.

And I can say this without condemnation because I know the difference between guilt and clarity. The answer is not more self-hatred. The answer is not heavier shame. Shame is one of the flesh’s favorite tools. It takes failure and uses it as evidence that change is impossible. But conviction is different. Conviction is mercy. Conviction is the Spirit tapping you on the shoulder and saying, “This is not who you are. This is not where you’re going. This is not the road I’ve called you to walk.” Conviction does not crush you; it calls you home.

So I’m saying it plainly: if the flesh has been controlling areas of my life, it’s not because God abandoned me. It’s because the Spirit cannot lead where He is not followed. He will not override my will. He will not drag me into freedom against my decision. He leads where He is welcomed, and He steps back where He is resisted. Control always follows submission. Direction always follows the authority I obey.

That’s why “Spirit controlled” is not a cute phrase to me. It’s the line between bondage and freedom. It’s the line between survival Christianity and supernatural Christianity. It’s the line between a life that looks spiritual on the outside and a life that is actually governed by heaven on the inside.

The flesh is not merely an external enemy that attacks me from the outside. Yes, there is temptation. Yes, there is pressure. Yes, there is warfare. But the flesh is also an internal force—an old operating system—“me” without surrender. It is unredeemed patterns of thinking, reacting, and desiring that were formed before I yielded to Christ. Salvation changes identity, but it does not erase patterns overnight. Patterns remain dormant only when they are denied influence. And when vigilance fades, they do not knock. They reoccupy territory.

This explains why the flesh often appears strongest in moments of fatigue, emotional stress, disappointment, or spiritual dryness. When I am tired and unguarded, the flesh interprets it as permission. Old habits resurface. Emotional reactions intensify. Desires once controlled regain urgency. None of this is random. It is predictable. It is leadership taking place in the absence of surrender.

The flesh thrives on immediacy. It wants comfort now. Relief now. Validation now. Control now. It has no patience for process, no love for refinement, and no interest in transformation. The Spirit, by contrast, leads toward long-term freedom, often through restraint and obedience. The flesh says, “Fix it now.” The Spirit says, “Follow Me now.” The flesh says, “Protect yourself.” The Spirit says, “Trust Me.” The flesh says, “Get even.” The Spirit says, “Forgive.” The flesh says, “Say what you feel.” The Spirit says, “Speak what is true.” The flesh says, “Escape the discomfort.” The Spirit says, “Walk through it with Me.”

And this is where so many people misunderstand the conflict. The flesh does not usually take the remote with one dramatic decision. It takes it with a thousand subtle ones. It advances quietly through habits that seem harmless, reasonable, and even justified. It grows through distraction. It grows through constant noise. It grows through emotional justification. It grows through selective obedience—submitting to God in what feels manageable while resisting Him where it costs something. It grows through comparison—measuring myself by other people instead of by God’s standard, which slowly turns conviction into “being too intense.” It grows through familiarity with spiritual language without corresponding spiritual discipline—quoting truth while refusing transformation.

A subtle habit becomes powerful not because it is intense, but because it is repeated. What I repeatedly excuse, I eventually normalize. What I normalize, I eventually defend. And that’s how captivity starts to look like personality. That’s how bondage disguises itself as maturity. That’s how spiritual dullness can feel like “being realistic.” It’s not always chaos that proves the flesh is leading. Sometimes it’s the quiet drift—prayer rushed, Scripture occasional, stillness avoided, conviction postponed, emotions reigning, and the inner life slowly being ruled by urgency rather than wisdom.

So I’ve had to become honest about something: my attention is a throne. What I keep looking at, I keep craving. What I keep listening to, I keep believing. What I keep rehearsing, I keep becoming. If I keep giving my attention to fear, fear will program me. If I keep giving my attention to lust, lust will train me. If I keep giving my attention to offense, offense will shape my personality. But if I give my attention to the Spirit—through prayer, through the Word, through worship, through stillness, through obedience—then the Spirit trains my reflexes. He rewires my instincts. He builds a new default inside me.

And the battlefield is not mainly the dramatic crossroads. The battle between Spirit and flesh is usually decided in the ordinary seconds that nobody claps for. It’s decided when I pause before I speak. It’s decided when I forgive instead of rehearse offense. It’s decided when I choose truth over comfort. It’s decided when I stop scrolling and start listening. It’s decided when I bring a thought into captivity instead of letting it build a home in my mind. It’s decided when I obey quickly in something small, because small obedience keeps the remote in the Spirit’s hands.

Reaction is one of the clearest signs of flesh leadership. Reaction is fast, emotional, instinctive. Reaction bypasses wisdom. Reaction protects ego. Reaction defends self. Reaction escalates. But Spirit-led living is responsive. Response pauses. Response discerns. Response listens. Response speaks with restraint. Response doesn’t need to win an argument to remain secure. And I’m learning to recognize the difference in real time, not after damage is done.

Avoidance is another quiet ally of the flesh. Avoidance feels safe, but it is spiritually expensive. When difficult conversations are postponed, convictions ignored, or necessary changes delayed, the flesh interprets that delay as permission. The Spirit often leads toward what is uncomfortable—not because He desires pain, but because transformation rarely occurs inside comfort. The flesh resists discomfort like it is death. The Spirit uses discomfort like a doorway.

Thought life is a major battlefield too. Thoughts arrive uninvited, but they are not meant to remain unexamined. When fearful thoughts, indulgent thoughts, fantasy thoughts, bitter thoughts, or self-pity thoughts circulate unchecked, they become mental pathways. And the flesh operates efficiently in familiar pathways. What I think repeatedly becomes what I live instinctively. That’s why the Spirit renews the mind. Not to make me “positive,” but to make me aligned.

Even my words reveal leadership. Words shape inner reality. When speech becomes cynical, careless, reactive, or exaggerated, it reinforces flesh-led thinking. The Spirit produces speech that reflects restraint, truth, mercy, and clarity. The flesh favors expression without accountability. Over time, what I speak casually, I start believing deeply.

And I’ve learned that even my “rest” can either restore the Spirit’s authority or empower the flesh, depending on intention. Rest that restores alignment is holy. Rest that becomes escape is dangerous. The Spirit uses rest to strengthen me for obedience. The flesh uses rest to disengage from responsibility. The difference is subtle, but it shows up in the fruit.

So I’ve started living with a different question. Not just, “How do I stop this behavior?” but, “Who is leading me right now?” Because leadership is the root. Behavior is the fruit. If leadership changes, everything else reorganizes.

And here is where things get wild—because when the Spirit truly has the remote, He doesn’t just correct me. He stretches me. He leads me into faith that baffles my natural mind. There will be things the Spirit tells me to do that even boggle me, because I’ve moved into a realm of trust I’ve never lived in before. I’ll look back and think, “How did I have the courage to do that?” And I realize it wasn’t courage generated by personality. It was courage generated by surrender.

Faith isn’t comfort. Faith is risk. Faith is obedience when my natural mind doesn’t have a guaranteed outcome to cling to. Faith can feel like walking off a cliff into thin air. Everything in the flesh screams, “Don’t do it. Stay safe. Wait until you have proof.” But the Spirit whispers, “Step.”

And when I step, I learn something the flesh will never teach me: the air holds me when God speaks. The ground appears when I obey. The confirmation comes after surrender, not before it. The Lord confirms His Word as I move, and out of my obedience, there comes a supernatural shift that rewrites what I thought was possible.

And once you’ve traveled that road—once you’ve obeyed when it didn’t make sense, once you’ve watched Him catch you, once you’ve seen Him provide, once you’ve seen Him open what no man could open—something becomes almost like an addiction in the best sense of the word. Not addiction to hype. Addiction to alignment. Addiction to the realm where God is undeniably God and you are undeniably led. Once you’ve tasted Spirit-led faith, everything shifts. Your appetites change. Your priorities rearrange. Your inner compass recalibrates. Comfort stops being your god. Understanding stops being your anchor. You begin to crave that realm of trust where obedience is your language.

And yes—people will wonder about you. Some will be inspired. Some will be concerned. They’ll question your choices, your timing, your risks, your generosity, your obedience, because Spirit-led faith involves daily risking the very things many people take for granted. It risks the need to be understood. It risks the illusion of control. It risks comfort. It risks reputation. It risks “common sense” when common sense is not aligned with the Word of the Lord. Faith looks reckless to the flesh, but it looks normal to a person who has learned to hear God.

The Spirit doesn’t only train me in “big” faith. He trains me in small obedience too, because small obedience builds a life that can carry large assignments. I remember one day I was at my office early. It was a modern office—complete washroom, a small kitchen—everything set up so I could stay there a long time when I was focusing on the Lord. It was one of those mornings where you’re not rushing, where you’re making room for God, where your soul feels quiet enough to actually listen.

I went into the washroom and started to shave.

And while I was shaving, the power went off.

The room dropped into darkness—real darkness. Not just dim. Dark enough that your body instantly wants to freeze and your mind starts calculating risk. I stood there, razor in my hand, and the natural instinct rose up immediately: stop, step back, wait until the lights come on. And right there, in that dark moment, the Lord spoke to me with that quiet, unmistakable authority that makes you realize you are not alone.

Sometimes the best decision you can make in darkness is to go forward—continuing what I have already put on your heart.

And then He pressed it deeper, not to be dramatic, but to be personal. He asked me a question that wasn’t about shaving at all.

“Peter… do you trust Me?”

I could have paused. I could have waited for the environment to become comfortable again. But the Spirit was teaching me how the flesh responds when the lights go out—and how faith responds. And I answered Him because you can’t pretend with God.

“Yes, Lord. I trust You.”

And the Spirit responded with simple clarity.

“Then keep shaving.”

It was a small thing. But in that dark washroom it became a living parable. It illustrated how the Spirit trains us: not only in massive crossroads, but in ordinary moments where fear tries to seize the remote. The Spirit was showing me that walking by faith isn’t only for huge life decisions. It is for everyday alignment. It is for the small obediences that build a Spirit-led reflex.

Because the same Spirit who can guide my hand in a dark room can guide my life in a dark season. The same Spirit who can be trusted when I cannot see the mirror can be trusted when I cannot see the future. And that’s when I realized: Spirit controlled living is continuing in obedience even when clarity is not instant. It is listening more than panicking. It is yielding more than calculating. It is moving forward with God when the flesh wants to freeze.

And that moment did something to me. It reminded me that Spirit control is not about dramatic spirituality; it is about surrendered leadership. The Spirit wants my yes in the ordinary places, because the ordinary places are where my “default settings” are formed. He wants to govern me when nobody is watching, because private obedience is where authority is established. The flesh loves visible spirituality without inward surrender. The Spirit values obedience when it costs something inside me—when it requires trust.

And that’s why I’ve come to see that the Spirit doesn’t only want to govern my obvious weaknesses—He wants to govern my strongest traits too. Because if the flesh can hijack my strength, it will. If the flesh can take what God put in me and twist it, it will. If the flesh can take a gift and use it without surrender, it will.

Years and years ago, I received a prophetic word that has stayed with me like a marker on the road. It came from a gentleman from Alabama in the United States—he had that distinct, memorable accent—and in the middle of his service he called me up to the front. He looked right at me, paused like he was listening for the exact phrasing from heaven, and then he spoke words I will never forget.

He said, “Boy, you’re so stubborn that you got so many whippings when you were a kid.”

And I remember the instant reaction in me. Everything in my natural mind wanted to pull back. I wanted to reject it right there. I was thinking, I don’t know if I want this kind of word. I don’t know if I want to be labeled like that. It felt like someone put a spotlight on something I didn’t want exposed—something I didn’t want framed as part of my story.

But then he added one sentence, and that sentence revolutionized the way I looked at my life.

He said, “But God is going to use that stubbornness to advance the Kingdom of God.”

The moment he said it, something shifted in me. I realized God was not endorsing flesh—He was redeeming design. He wasn’t calling me to be stubborn in my own will—He was revealing there was a grit, a perseverance, a refusal-to-back-down that could either be hijacked by the flesh or harnessed by the Spirit. And in that moment, I understood something I needed to understand for the rest of my journey: some traits that look like liabilities in the wrong hands become weapons in the Spirit’s hands.

That trait in me—what the world might call stubborn—was not meant to make me hard-hearted. It was meant to make me unmovable when God speaks. It was meant to make me steady when pressure comes. It was meant to make me the kind of man who doesn’t quit when it gets dark, doesn’t fold when it gets costly, and doesn’t retreat when obedience requires endurance. Not stubborn against God—stubborn for God. Stubborn enough to keep saying yes when comfort says no. Stubborn enough to keep walking when my flesh wants to stop. Stubborn enough to stay aligned when distraction tries to pull the remote out of the Spirit’s hands.

And I’ve never forgotten that word as I’ve walked through life, because it keeps clarifying the real issue. Let me be clear: it’s not your stubbornness that’s the problem. It’s your misdirected stubbornness that becomes the problem. The flesh takes that same trait and turns it into pride, resistance, self-protection, and “I’ll do it my way.” But the Holy Spirit takes that trait and turns it into perseverance, conviction, steadfast obedience, and “I will not move until God’s will is done.”

That’s what Spirit controlled living does—it doesn’t erase your personality. It redeems it. It doesn’t destroy your intensity. It sanctifies it. It doesn’t remove your strength. It aims it. The Spirit doesn’t come to make you less you; He comes to make you like Christ. He takes what He planted in you and brings it under government, so it doesn’t become a weapon used by the flesh, but a tool used by heaven.

And this is where I’ve seen so many people lose momentum. Not because they don’t love God, but because they misunderstand where the battle is actually won. They assume freedom comes from stronger willpower. They try to manage the flesh through discipline alone. They try to outperform temptation with routines, and routines matter, yes—but the flesh understands effort. The flesh can mimic discipline. It can tolerate routine. It can cooperate temporarily with moral behavior. It can even make you look “strong” while keeping you self-centered. But what it cannot survive is surrendered authority—when the Spirit is not an accessory, but a Governor.

Self-control is fruit. It is produced by the Spirit’s leadership, not manufactured by the flesh’s striving. When I try to build Spirit fruit with flesh energy, I end up exhausted and proud at the same time—exhausted when I fail, proud when I succeed, and still centered on myself either way. But when authority shifts, everything changes. Temptation doesn’t always vanish, but it loses its urgency. The flesh speaks loudest when it believes it’s in charge. When it’s not in charge, its voice becomes easier to recognize.

And one of the first changes I notice when the Spirit is leading is clarity. Confusion diminishes. Compulsion weakens. The internal debate quiets. I still discern, but there’s less chaos. There’s less negotiation. There’s less spiritual whiplash. The soul begins to rest, not because life is easy, but because leadership is settled.

The next change is that I stop living under pressure. Flesh-led living runs on pressure—pressure to perform, pressure to prove, pressure to be admired, pressure to not be rejected, pressure to not be exposed. The Spirit replaces pressure with conviction. Conviction doesn’t rush, but it doesn’t hesitate. Conviction moves me without panic. Conviction anchors me without anxiety.

Even stress becomes different. Stress still comes, but stress no longer hijacks identity. In flesh-led systems, stress amplifies impulsivity. In Spirit-led systems, stress invites dependence. I stop reacting like a cornered animal and start responding like a son with a Father. I stop making decisions to get immediate relief and start making decisions that preserve alignment.

Patience grows here, and patience is one of the flesh’s greatest enemies. The flesh needs urgency to stay persuasive. It needs haste to bypass discernment. But the Spirit cultivates patience, and patience keeps me from making expensive decisions just to feel better for five minutes. Patience protects destiny. Patience guards calling. Patience keeps the remote in the Spirit’s hands when the flesh tries to manufacture an emergency.

And when I stumble—and I have—failure becomes different too. The flesh uses failure as evidence of unworthiness. The Spirit treats failure as information. Under flesh leadership, failure creates shame and withdrawal. Under Spirit leadership, failure produces correction and growth. Shame is one of the flesh’s strongest ropes. Shame silences prayer. Shame makes people hide. Shame turns conviction into condemnation. But the Spirit convicts without crushing. He corrects without rejecting. He leads me forward instead of trapping me in yesterday.

So I refuse shame as a leader. I refuse condemnation as a teacher. I refuse self-hatred as a motivator. I receive conviction as mercy. I receive correction as love. I receive discipline as protection. I receive boundaries as freedom.

And this is where the deepest fruit appears: peace that persists through uncertainty. Not peace that depends on outcomes. Not peace that requires everything to be clear. Peace that flows from alignment. The flesh cannot manufacture that peace. It can imitate calm for a moment if everything is going its way, but it cannot sustain peace under pressure. The Spirit can. That peace is a witness that leadership has changed.

The ultimate consequence of not walking in the Spirit isn’t only moral failure or emotional instability. It is captivity without awareness. When the flesh controls a person long enough, control begins to feel normal. Bondage disguises itself as personality. Limitation presents itself as realism. Spiritual dullness feels like maturity. Faith becomes belief without obedience. Prayer becomes routine without surrender. Scripture becomes information without transformation. The external structure remains intact, but the internal authority has shifted.

And that condition is dangerous because it is stable. There may be no crisis. No dramatic collapse. Nothing “big” happens. Life functions. But hunger fades. Sensitivity dulls. Initiative disappears. People call it “waiting on God,” but it’s often avoidance dressed in spiritual clothing. The flesh loves that. It doesn’t need to destroy faith to win; it only needs to redefine faith into something that doesn’t require obedience.

But the Spirit does not withdraw even then. He waits. He doesn’t force leadership, but He never relinquishes availability. The moment surrender returns, authority can be restored. No amount of time cancels that possibility.

Breaking free begins with recognition. Recognition disrupts normalization. When captivity is named, its power weakens. And yes, when surrender returns, sensitivity often returns too. Numbness fades. Conviction sharpens. Old emotions surface. Buried grief and unresolved disappointment come back into view. The flesh tries to convince you that surrender makes life worse. But surrender simply removes anesthesia. Pain that was hidden is now visible, not to punish, but to heal. The Spirit does not reveal wounds to shame you. He reveals them to restore integrity.

So I choose courage here. Not perfection—courage. Courage to stay present. Courage to let truth touch what has been numbed. Courage to obey when it would be easier to retreat into comfort. Courage to keep shaving when it gets dark. Courage to step when it feels like thin air. Courage to let the Spirit govern my strongest traits, not just my weakest moments.

And I’m declaring this over my life—and over anyone who can feel this tug in their spirit right now: I will not be led by exhaustion. I will not be led by urgency. I will not be led by emotion as lord. I will be led by the Spirit of God. I will walk in alignment daily. I will keep the remote out of my flesh’s hands. I will not normalize what the Spirit is exposing. I will not call bondage “just who I am.” I will not surrender my destiny to temporary relief.

I am Spirit controlled—not because I’m flawless, but because I’m surrendered. Not because I never feel temptation, but because temptation doesn’t decide. Not because I never feel fear, but because fear doesn’t lead. Not because I always have clarity, but because even in darkness I know how to keep obeying. Even in uncertainty I know how to keep moving forward with God. Even when I cannot see the next step, I can listen for the voice that has never failed me.

And I am walking in divine destiny—not by drifting into it, but by obeying into it. Step by step. Moment by moment. Button by button. Until my life is no longer a story of flesh-led survival, but a testimony of Spirit-led freedom—where God is undeniably God, and I am undeniably led. Much love.