Vectors and Vessels
In mathematics, a vector is a simple but powerful thing.
It has two essential parts: magnitude (how strong something is) and direction (where it’s going).
It’s not enough to know how powerful a force is; you also have to know where it’s pointed.
A storm with great magnitude moving harmlessly out to sea is a very different thing than one barreling straight toward your house.
When I first learned about vectors in school, I thought they were just another neat idea – another arrow on another worksheet. But when grief tore through my life like a hurricane, when life itself became an unpredictable ocean, I began to realize that understanding vectors wasn’t just about passing algebra tests. It was about survival.
Magnitude and direction became a mental heuristic for decision-making, for growth, and for resilience.
In every situation, I started asking myself:
- How strong is this force in my life?
- And where is it taking me?
Is this anger I’m feeling a powerful engine pointed toward justice, or a raging flood about to destroy everything in its path?
Is this ambition I’m chasing building a bridge to my dreams, or dragging me away from my peace?
This thinking naturally braided itself into what I later recognized as a growth mindset: the belief that I am not fixed, that my strength and direction can change and that I can choose new vectors, at any time.
The Bible, too, spoke often of storms and vessels language that suddenly felt electric and alive to me.
There were stories of Jesus calming storms with a word, of disciples terrified in boats tossed by furious winds, of human beings compared to fragile vessels of clay.
And every story had the same undercurrent:
Life will bring storms.
But you must protect your vessel your body, your mind, your soul from both the storms that rage around you and the ones that rage within you.
I saw my body differently after that. Not just as a thing to be endured or improved, but as a sacred vessel that had to be guarded and guided with care.
In those moments when anxiety or grief surged like crashing waves, I would remember:
Magnitude and direction.
How strong is this feeling? Where is it trying to take me?
Is this storm outside of me? Or is it gathering inside my own heart?
By framing life’s turbulence in the simple language of vectors, I could stop feeling so helpless.
Instead of being tossed around by every emotion, every obstacle, every injustice, I could become a navigator, adjusting my sails, checking my compass, protecting my vessel.
Because if you’re sailing through life without awareness of your own magnitude and direction, it’s easy to end up shipwrecked – blaming the ocean when, all along, you just needed to change your course.
