They tell us love is easy
when it looks like us,
talks like us,
votes like us,
prays like us,
lives like us.
But Jesus never stayed
inside the lines people drew.
He sat with addicts
whose hands shook from the weight of survival.
He spoke to the outcast,
the homeless,
the forgotten.
He touched the sick no one else would touch.
He crossed borders people swore were uncrossable.
He loved people of different nations,
different stories,
different failures.
And if He walked our streets today,
would He not sit beside the LGBTQ+ teen
who has only ever heard that they are “too much” or “wrong”?
Would He not kneel beside the refugee,
the immigrant,
the person mocked for their accent,
their skin,
their traditions?
Would He not slow His pace
for the child with developmental disabilities,
for the man in the wheelchair left outside the building,
for the woman whose body works differently
in a world that rarely makes room for her?
Because Jesus never measured worth
by sameness.
But we do.
We decide who deserves kindness
based on who makes us comfortable.
We decide who deserves grace
based on whether they fit neatly
inside our expectations.
We decide who belongs
by who looks like us,
acts like us,
believes like us.
Then we call it holiness.
We sing,
“They will know we are Christians by our love,”
while people leave our churches
feeling hated, invisible, unwanted, and small.
We preach grace from pulpits
while gossiping about people at lunch tables.
We tell struggling people to “come as you are,”
then stare when they actually do.
We tell people God loves them,
then make them earn our kindness first.
Love them—
but not too loudly.
Welcome them—
but don’t let them lead.
Care about justice—
but don’t make anyone uncomfortable.
Speak truth—
but only when leadership approves of it.
And suddenly,
the Gospel starts sounding less like Jesus
and more like control.
Because Jesus never avoided hard truths
to protect comfort.
He questioned religious leaders publicly.
He called out hypocrisy directly.
He flipped tables in the temple
when people exploited the vulnerable
and turned faith into performance.
He sat with sinners,
ate beside the rejected,
walked with the people society discarded
and everyone else avoided.
He defended the condemned
when crowds stood ready with stones in their hands.
He broke social rules
to reach hurting people.
And somehow,
the same faith built on His courage
now tells people to stay quiet.
Don’t question authority.
Don’t challenge the system.
Don’t speak too boldly.
Don’t advocate too much.
Don’t care too deeply.
But silence has never protected the oppressed.
It only protects the people oppressing them.
We are told to love our neighbors,
yet spend so much time deciding
who qualifies as neighbor.
But the truth is—
we do not get to choose our neighbors.
Not the addict.
Not the unhoused family.
Not the disabled child.
Not the Muslim coworker.
Not the immigrant family.
Not the transgender teen.
Not the person whose politics differ from ours.
Not the people society taught us to avoid.
We do not get to vote
on who is worthy of dignity.
Jesus already answered that question
when He chose to die for all of us.
And I am not perfect.
I have failed people too.
I have judged too quickly,
stayed quiet when I should have spoken,
chosen comfort over courage.
But I am trying.
Trying to love louder.
Trying to listen better.
Trying to follow Jesus
more than I follow fear, tradition, or approval.
Because I would rather be known
as the Christian who loved imperfectly but genuinely
than the one who looked holy while ignoring hurting people.
I would rather love people in private
than perform kindness in crowded sanctuaries.
I would rather defend the hurting
in small rooms,
quiet conversations,
Monday afternoons,
Thursday nights,
and ordinary moments
than only speak about love
when everyone is watching.
Because faith was never meant
to stay inside church walls.
If I claim to follow Jesus,
then my life should reflect Him
when the sanctuary empties,
when the music stops,
when there is no audience left to applaud compassion.
Because if our Christianity
only extends compassion to people who resemble us,
if our churches feel safer for the powerful than the hurting,
if our faith demands silence in the face of injustice,
then we are not reflecting the Jesus
who walked among the rejected,
washed the feet of imperfect people,
and called them worthy of love anyway.
19h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 12:21 AM UTC
I found Father Time the way I imagine most people do—not by looking for him, but by carrying questions for so long that eventually I wandered into his presence.
For years, I had carried them. Questions about life and death. Questions about why some people stay while others leave. Questions about why I felt homesick for places I had never been and why my heart seemed to beat to the rhythm of another age. Questions about God, purpose, suffering, and whether the ordinary moments of life truly mattered.
One evening, somewhere between exhaustion and wonder, I found myself walking down an old dirt road. The sun had long since disappeared behind the horizon, and the stars were beginning to wake overhead. I couldn’t tell you where the road began or where it ended. Somehow it felt as though I had wandered beyond yesterday itself.
That’s when I saw the porch.
A lantern glowed warmly against the darkness. Wind chimes swayed in the evening breeze. Light spilled from the windows of a small farmhouse that looked older than memory itself. It felt familiar somehow, like a place I had never seen but had always known.
And there he sat.
An old man in a weathered rocking chair.
A steaming mug rested beside him. A thick leather-bound book lay across his lap. The porch creaked softly beneath him as he rocked back and forth, completely unhurried, as though he had nowhere else to be and all of eternity to get there.
His silver hair curled beneath a worn cap. Deep lines crossed his face like roads carved by countless years. His eyes held something I had never seen before—not merely wisdom, but remembrance. The kind that comes from witnessing generations rise and fall, from watching first breaths and final goodbyes, from seeing every season humanity has ever known.
When he looked up and saw me standing at the edge of the porch, he smiled.
Not the smile of a stranger.
The smile of a grandfather who had been expecting company.
“Well,” he said, patting the empty rocking chair beside him, “it’s about time.”
And somehow, before I had spoken a single word, he already knew every question I had come to ask.
I sat beside him, and for a while neither of us spoke. We listened to the wind in the trees and watched the stars appear one by one. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like the kind of silence that only exists between old friends.
Finally, I asked him the question I had carried for years.
“Why do I feel so out of place?”
He chuckled softly.
“I suppose you think you were born in the wrong era.”
I nodded.
He rested a hand on the old book in his lap.
“No. Some people are simply born carrying reminders.”
Then he opened the book.
The pages turned by themselves.
And suddenly I wasn’t just sitting on a porch anymore.
I was seeing everything.
Roman roads stretched across dusty landscapes. Cathedrals rose toward heaven. Families gathered around dinner tables. Children played beneath summer suns. Campfires burned beneath starlit skies. Churches filled with worshippers. Missionaries crossed oceans. Generations came and went like waves upon a shore.
Among them I saw people who felt familiar.
People who stood for things their culture mocked.
People who carried convictions that made them lonely.
People who loved old truths in changing worlds.
People who never quite fit.
Father Time smiled.
“You were never the first.”
The pages turned again.
“Was I born too late?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“No. Every generation forgets something worth remembering. God has always called certain people to carry old truths into new worlds. You don’t belong in another century. You belong in this one. Otherwise He wouldn’t have placed you here.”
The answer settled somewhere deep inside me.
Then I watched the pages fill with prayers.
Thousands of them.
Millions.
Prayers whispered through tears.
Prayers offered by exhausted parents.
Prayers prayed in hospital rooms and church pews.
Prayers spoken by lonely believers wondering if God was listening.
Every single one written into the pages.
Not forgotten.
Not ignored.
Remembered.
“God keeps better records than people do,” Father Time said quietly.
Then another question rose in my chest.
The one everyone eventually asks.
“Why do people die?”
The pages slowed.
His expression softened.
He turned the book toward me.
This time, instead of history, I saw lives.
Individual stories.
Some were long.
Some heartbreakingly short.
A child.
A grandmother.
A young father.
An old pastor.
Entire books of different lengths.
Some ended after only a handful of chapters.
Others stretched on for hundreds of pages.
My chest tightened.
“Who decides?” I whispered. “Why does one person receive eighty years while another receives eight? Why do some people seem to have entire libraries while others barely have a chapter?”
For a long moment, Father Time stared at the pages.
Then he looked toward the heavens.
“That question belongs to the Author.”
His voice was reverent.
“I am only the keeper of the stories.”
He pointed upward.
Beyond the porch.
Beyond the stars.
Beyond time itself.
“The One who wrote the story is the One who numbers the pages.”
I wanted more than that.
I wanted reasons.
I wanted explanations.
I wanted every loss to make sense.
But Father Time only smiled.
The way a grandfather smiles when he knows some wisdom can only be learned by continuing to walk forward.
Then I asked the question I think every person secretly wants answered.
“How much time do I have left?”
The wind chimes stilled.
Father Time looked down at the book and gently ran his hand across its cover.
Then he smiled.
“I don’t know.”
I stared at him.
“You don’t?”
He laughed softly.
“No.”
Then his eyes drifted upward again.
“I’m not the Author.”
He paused.
“And if you knew how many pages remained, you would spend too much time counting them and not enough time living them.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Because he was right.
Then another thought came to me.
“What about mine?”
He tilted his head.
“My book.”
A warmth entered his smile.
Like a grandfather being asked about someone he loves.
Without a word, he opened the book once more.
The pages turned rapidly until they stopped.
And there it was.
My story.
I expected something grand.
Something remarkable.
Instead, I found ordinary moments.
Family dinners.
Road trips.
Church services.
Campfires.
Friendships.
Conversations.
Laughter.
Tears.
Prayers prayed when nobody else was listening.
Moments spent serving.
Moments spent questioning.
Moments spent becoming.
And as I looked closer, I realized the smallest moments often glowed the brightest.
A quiet act of obedience.
A word of encouragement.
A difficult choice made because it was right.
A prayer whispered in faith.
The things I barely remembered.
The things the world would never notice.
Those pages shone.
Father Time nodded.
“The Author has a habit of valuing things the world overlooks.”
I stared at the pages still unwritten.
Blank.
Waiting.
Full of possibility.
For once, I didn’t want to know how the story ended.
I was simply grateful it wasn’t finished.
Then I asked the question I wanted answered most.
“Where do all the moments go?”
At that, Father Time smiled.
A knowing smile.
A beautiful one.
He opened the book wider.
And suddenly I saw everything.
Every laugh.
Every prayer.
Every goodbye.
Every wedding dance.
Every hospital bedside.
Every first day of school.
Every campfire testimony.
Every conversation that changed a life.
Every act of kindness nobody saw.
Every tear shed in secret.
Nothing was missing.
Not one moment.
Not one memory.
Not one prayer.
People think time steals things away.
But there, in those pages, I realized the truth.
Time isn’t a thief.
Time is a messenger.
A caretaker.
A witness.
It carries moments where they belong.
The pages glowed softly, like sunlight through stained glass.
And suddenly I understood.
The people weren’t gone.
The moments weren’t gone.
The prayers weren’t gone.
They had simply been carried forward into hands far greater than ours.
Into the hands of the Author Himself.
We sat there for a long while after that.
The old man rocked gently in his chair. The stars drifted overhead. The book rested open across his knees.
I thought about every season I had lost. Every goodbye. Every person I missed. Every prayer I was still waiting to see answered.
And somehow they no longer felt abandoned.
Only unfinished.
Because maybe what looks like the end of a chapter to us is only the place where the page turns.
Eventually I stood to leave.
Father Time remained in his chair.
The lantern glowed softly beside him. The book rested quietly across his lap.
As I stepped off the porch, he offered one final thought.
“You spend most of your life wondering how much time you have.”
I turned back.
He smiled.
“The better question is what you’ll do with the time you’ve been given.”
Then he glanced upward.
Toward the Author.
Toward eternity.
Toward home.
And for a moment, I think I understood.
Not everything.
Not even close.
But enough.
Enough to trust.
Enough to keep walking.
Enough to believe that every moment matters, every prayer is heard, every life has purpose, and every story is held safely in the hands of the God who wrote it.
When I looked back one final time, the porch was fading into the night. The old man was becoming part of the starlight. But the book remained open, its pages turning gently in the wind.
And somewhere beyond yesterday, Father Time was still sitting on that porch, keeping watch over the stories, while the Author continued writing them.
19h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 12:18 AM UTC
Sometimes I wonder if Heaven got distracted
The day they sent me here.
Maybe somebody misplaced my name,
And I landed decades too late.
Because my heart belongs to vinyl records,
To jukeboxes glowing red and gold in the corner of a diner,
To church socials and handwritten letters,
To front porches and evening conversations,
To a world I've never known
Yet somehow miss.
I hear an old song and something inside me aches,
Like homesickness for a place I've never been.
The crackle before the music starts
Feels more familiar than the buzz of a phone.
A harmony from another generation
Can stop me in my tracks
And make me wonder if part of my soul
Was left somewhere between the fifties and the seventies.
Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine the fifties.
A modest dress swaying around my knees.
Brown curls pinned just right.
A church gymnasium decorated for a dance.
String lights hanging from the rafters.
Laughter echoing across polished floors.
The boys would slick back their hair.
The girls would spin until they were dizzy.
And I'd stay until the very last song,
Not wanting the night to end.
I think I would've loved those church potlucks, too.
Long tables crowded with casseroles and pies.
Children weaving through fellowship halls.
Ladies teaching Sunday school.
Men greeting families at the door.
The kind of community where everyone knew your name,
Your family,
And your story.
But even then,
I don't think I could've ignored
The things that weren't right.
Because beneath the nostalgia and neon lights,
There were people still waiting to be treated fairly.
And I think I would've been the girl
Asking uncomfortable questions.
Why are some people pushed aside?
Why are some voices ignored?
Why do some carry burdens
Others never have to bear?
Questions that would've made some people uneasy.
Questions that still matter now.
Then the sixties begin to dawn.
The music changes.
The world changes.
And I think part of me would've come alive in those years.
I can see myself sitting beneath a shade tree,
Bible open beside a notebook,
Talking for hours about faith, justice, and purpose.
The Civil Rights Movement marches forward.
Young people gather in churches,
On campuses,
In town squares.
Believing the world can become better than it is.
And I know I would've cared.
Not because it was popular.
Not because it was easy.
But because every person bears the image of God.
I would've listened to stories others ignored.
I would've spoken for those who felt unheard.
I would've stood beside those demanding dignity.
Maybe my thoughts would've first appeared
In poems scribbled in spiral notebooks.
Maybe I would've been nervous to share them.
But eventually, I think I would've found my voice.
Because silence has never sat comfortably in my soul.
And while the nation wrestled with justice,
The Space Race would've filled me with wonder.
I can imagine standing in a crowded living room,
Watching grainy images from the Moon landing,
Amazed that humanity had stepped onto another world.
What a time to be young.
A decade filled with heartbreak and hope.
With songs and sermons.
With movements and dreams.
Then the seventies arrive wrapped in golden sunlight.
The windows are rolled down.
The radio is playing.
A guitar leans against the wall.
The smell of supper drifts from the kitchen.
Children laugh in the yard.
The evening air hums with crickets and conversation.
Life isn't perfect.
But it feels real.
Messy.
Warm.
Lived-in.
I think I would've fit there.
Not because life was easier.
But because people gathered.
They sat on porches.
They stayed after church talking for hours.
They knew their neighbors.
They shared meals.
They built community face-to-face.
And somewhere in that decade,
I imagine myself gathering younger girls around me.
Listening.
Teaching.
Encouraging.
Helping them discover who God created them to be.
Because even now,
That's who I am.
While conversations about justice continued,
I think I would've found myself drawn toward service.
Toward the struggling family down the road.
Toward the child who needed someone to believe in them.
Toward the people society seemed willing to overlook.
Not because I thought I could fix everything.
But because I believe faith is meant to move.
To show up.
To care.
To act.
Maybe that's why those decades call to me.
Not just because of the music.
Though I love the music.
The harmonies that still raise goosebumps on my arms.
The folk songs that ask difficult questions.
The country songs that tell stories.
The rock songs that refuse to stay quiet.
The voices that sound like hope,
Heartbreak,
Faith,
Freedom,
And home.
But sometimes I still wonder why.
Why an old soul was placed in a world
That often feels unfamiliar.
Why I long for handwritten letters
In an age of disappearing conversations.
Why I crave community
In a culture that seems increasingly lonely.
Why I treasure conviction
In a time that often treats conviction like a crime.
Why I find myself drawn to values,
Traditions,
And ways of living
That many people seem eager to leave behind.
Sometimes it feels as though I was born
A stranger in my own generation.
Too young to belong to the decades I love.
Too old at heart to fully understand the one I inhabit.
I don't always fit neatly into the world around me.
I still believe words matter.
I still believe promises matter.
I still believe character matters.
I still believe right and wrong matter.
I still believe faith should shape how we live.
And sometimes speaking those beliefs aloud
Feels like standing against a strong current.
Because this generation can be quick to mock.
Quick to argue.
Quick to dismiss.
Quick to silence.
Sometimes it would be easier to stay quiet.
To avoid the criticism.
To keep my thoughts hidden.
To stop caring so deeply.
But I don't think I was created for silence.
Not when people are hurting.
Not when injustice remains.
Not when truth deserves a voice.
Not when young girls need guidance.
Not when faith calls for courage.
So I speak.
Not because I enjoy conflict.
Not because I think I have all the answers.
But because I care.
Because compassion without courage changes very little.
Because conviction without kindness misses the point.
And because every generation needs people willing
To stand where they are
And do what is right.
Different decade.
Same heart.
And maybe that's the answer I've been searching for.
Maybe God didn't place me in the fifties.
Maybe He didn't place me in the sixties.
Maybe He didn't place me in the seventies.
Not because I wouldn't have belonged there.
But because He knew this generation would need old souls too.
People who remember the value of community.
People who still believe in serving others.
People who refuse to stop caring.
People who are willing to speak
When it would be easier not to.
People who carry pieces of the past
Without becoming trapped by it.
Maybe my job isn't to live in those years.
Maybe it's to carry the best parts of them forward.
The music.
The courage.
The community.
The faith.
The compassion.
The conviction.
And every time an old record starts spinning,
For a few perfect minutes,
The decades meet in the middle.
The dances.
The movements.
The dreamers.
The fighters.
The ordinary people who believed
They could leave the world better than they found it.
And somehow, in that moment,
I understand.
A heart meant for yesterday
Can still have a purpose today.
1d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 2:21 PM UTC
To the little girl I used to be,
Maybe every version of us left little letters behind.
Maybe they sat quietly in journal pages, in prayers whispered into bedroom ceilings, in songs that hurt too much, or in thoughts we never said out loud.
A four-year-old leaving a note for an eight-year-old.
An eight-year-old leaving one for a hurting teenager.
A hurting teenager leaving one for sixteen.
An eighteen-year-old leaving one for twenty.
And now I’m twenty.
So I think it’s finally time to open them.
And answer them.
⸻
Age 4 — 2009
From four-year-old us:
“Why is everyone crying?”
“Where did Great Grandma Evelyn go?”
“When people leave, do they stay gone forever?”
From twenty-year-old us:
Oh, little girl.
You were so small.
Tiny hands.
Bright eyes.
A heart still believing dandelions were wishes waiting to happen.
And then we lost Great Grandma Evelyn.
Our first real goodbye.
Our first real heartbreak.
I know you didn’t understand it.
But love doesn’t disappear because people do.
People leave fingerprints on our hearts.
And hers stayed.
⸻
Age 8 — 2013
From eight-year-old us:
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Why does life feel different now?”
“Why does my heart feel confused?”
“Will things always feel this way?”
From twenty-year-old us:
No, sweet girl.
You didn’t do anything wrong.
You aren’t too sensitive.
You aren’t too much.
This was the year Daddy married our stepmom, and life started changing in ways we didn’t understand.
Mistakes were made.
People were hurting in ways they didn’t know how to handle.
And little by little it changed us.
It made us quieter sometimes.
It made us question ourselves sometimes.
It made us wonder if we needed to become smaller just to be loved.
But beautiful things happened too.
Our little brother officially became our little brother.
Our little sister was born.
And somehow our heart grew bigger.
Because even then—
you loved deeply.
⸻
Age 9 — 2014
From nine-year-old us:
“Why did Grandpa Gene leave?”
“Will I forget him?”
“Will someone stay?”
From twenty-year-old us:
No.
You won’t forget him.
Grandpa Gene wasn’t just Grandpa Gene.
He was comfort.
He was warmth.
He was safety.
He was home.
And this same year Mommy married our stepdad.
And he did something he never had to do.
He stepped in.
He chose us.
He loved us.
He stayed.
And little girls remember the people who stay.
⸻
Age 12–13 — 2017–2018
From younger us:
“Why does everything feel heavier?”
“Why do I feel different?”
“Why do mirrors feel so mean?”
“Will I always feel lost?”
From twenty-year-old us:
Oh honey,
I know things got heavy.
I know our mind became loud.
I know our heart became tired.
We lost Great Grandma Pat while we were in Maryland.
And around then, our own heart started carrying heavier things too.
Mental health became exhausting.
Lonely.
Heavy.
And we fought mirrors.
We looked at ourselves and saw flaws before beauty.
But I wish I could sit beside you and tell you:
You were beautiful then.
Beautiful while hurting.
Beautiful while surviving.
Beautiful while trying.
⸻
Age 16 — 2021
From sixteen-year-old us:
“Am I making the wrong choice?”
“Am I allowed to choose myself?”
“Will things ever feel lighter?”
“Where are we going to go?”
“What if I choose the wrong future?”
“What if I’m not good enough for the things I dream about?”
From twenty-year-old us:
No.
You were brave.
We left Daddy’s house carrying years of hurt and confusion and things we still didn’t know how to hold.
Leaving didn’t make us weak.
Leaving saved us.
And I know another fear was beginning to grow too.
The future.
College.
Trying to figure out where we would go.
Trying to decide who we wanted to become.
I know you sat wondering if there was a perfect choice somewhere and if choosing wrong would somehow ruin everything.
I know you felt pressure to figure out your whole life while you were still trying to figure out yourself.
But little girl—
you don’t have to have your entire future figured out at sixteen.
You don’t have to know every road before you start walking.
Sometimes life isn’t choosing one perfect path.
Sometimes it’s just taking the next step.
⸻
Age 18–19 — 2023–2024
From younger us:
“Do we ever find our people?”
“Do people stay?”
“Do we belong somewhere?”
“What if moving away changes everything?”
“What if we pick the wrong major?”
“What if everyone else knows what they’re doing except us?”
From twenty-year-old us:
Oh yes.
And God, I know you were scared.
Scared to move to college.
Scared to leave home.
Scared to pack our life into boxes and drive away from everything familiar.
Scared that changing a major meant failing.
Scared that everyone else somehow had life figured out while we were still standing there wondering what direction to walk.
I know you worried changing your mind meant you were falling behind.
But changing directions isn’t failure.
Growing isn’t failure.
Learning yourself isn’t failure.
And do you know what happens?
We find people.
Beautiful people.
Friends who text us just because.
Friends who sit beside us on hard days.
Friends who pray over us.
Friends who remind us that love isn’t always grand gestures.
Sometimes love is coffee.
Sometimes love is checking in.
Sometimes love is just showing up.
We found a church family at Lakeholm Church of the Nazarene.
We found our callings.
And now we get to pour into teenagers and kids who need someone—
someone safe.
Someone who stays.
Someone like we needed.
⸻
Age 20 — 2026
From every younger version of us:
“Do we become okay?”
“Do things get easier?”
“Do we ever leave our small town?”
“Do we stop hurting?”
“Do we become someone?”
From twenty-year-old us:
I’m still learning.
But I know this:
Pappy has dementia.
Pappy has Alzheimer’s.
Watching someone fade while they’re still here feels like grieving someone in slow motion.
And through every storm—
there was Granny.
Constant.
Steady.
Like a porch light left on.
Like home.
No matter how old we become—
we’ll always be her little girl.
Daddy has started showing back up too.
Slowly and carefully, we’re letting him back in.
We’re realizing people are complicated.
We’re realizing mistakes are complicated.
We’re trying to rebuild.
Trying to understand.
Trying to repair.
And we’re in therapy now.
Years ago we would’ve thought that meant we were broken.
Now I think it means we’re healing.
I know you wanted to grow up fast.
I know you wanted out.
I know you wanted to leave our small town.
Part of us still does.
But I’m learning something now:
Please don’t rush.
Life isn’t a movie.
You can’t fast forward it.
You can’t pause it.
You can’t rewind it.
Little siblings stop being little.
Grandparents grow older.
People leave.
People come back.
You only get this one.
So hold hugs longer.
Stay in kitchen conversations.
Watch sunsets until the sky turns dark.
Because now matters.
⸻
Letter to Tomorrow
From twenty-year-old us:
“Will we find love?”
“Will someone choose us and stay?”
“Will we have a family one day?”
“How will life change?”
“What good things are still coming?”
“How will our faith change?”
“Does life become everything we hoped?”
From twenty-year-old us, answering honestly:
I don’t know yet.
And I think younger us would’ve hated that answer.
Because we spent so much of our life wanting certainty.
Wanting to know how the story ends before we kept reading.
But maybe there is something beautiful about not knowing.
Maybe somewhere down the road there is love waiting.
The kind that stays.
The kind that feels safe.
The kind that feels like coming home.
Maybe one day we’ll hold a family of our own and look around and think:
“So this is what all those prayers were growing into.”
Maybe life changes in ways we never expected.
Maybe blessings show up wearing faces we haven’t met yet.
Maybe faith becomes less about having every answer and more about trusting God while we walk through questions.
And maybe life doesn’t become exactly what we hoped.
Maybe it becomes something different.
Something fuller.
Something softer.
Something more beautiful than we knew how to ask for.
With love always,
Your twenty-year-old self.
May 22
May 22, 2026 at 2:34 PM UTC
There are mothers who give us life,
and mothers who give us shelter.
Some share our blood,
some share our last name later,
and some simply step into the empty places
with open hands and tired eyes
and decide to stay.
There are grandmothers
whose kitchens become sanctuaries,
whose stories taste like sweet tea and Sunday afternoons.
There are foster moms
who hold children still learning
that home can be safe.
There are adoptive mothers
who prove love was never measured in DNA,
only in the choosing—
again and again and again.
There are stepmothers
who learn how to love through awkward beginnings,
through careful words and uncertain holidays,
until one day the title “step”
falls quiet beneath the weight of real devotion.
There are mothers-in-law
who welcome strangers as family,
who make room at crowded tables
and teach us new ways to belong.
There are stand-in moms too—
teachers, neighbors, aunts, church ladies,
older sisters with weary hearts and gentle voices.
Women who braid hair, wipe tears,
offer couches, prayers, advice,
who love children that were never theirs to carry
but somehow become theirs anyway.
Every kind of mother
brings something different into this world:
comfort, discipline, laughter, softness, resilience.
Some teach us how to survive.
Some teach us how to dream.
Some teach us how to keep going
when life presses hard against our ribs
and asks too much of us.
But my favorite mom is mine.
Because she cheers the loudest
even when she’s exhausted herself.
Because she helps me see clearly
when my thoughts tangle into storms.
Because she holds me while I cry
without trying to rush the tears away.
Because even when life has bruised her,
even when the weight of the world
has tried to bend her down,
she still chooses love.
She still chooses care.
She still wakes up every day
and teaches me, by example,
how to be gentle in a hard world.
She taught me how to make a home, too.
How to fold warm towels fresh from the dryer,
how to season cast iron just right,
how to tell when biscuits are done
without ever setting a timer.
She taught me recipes by memory,
measurements by instinct,
how food can say
“I’m thinking of you,”
without a single word being spoken.
She taught me how to clean not just for appearances,
but because people deserve comfort.
How making a bed for someone tired
or washing dishes before they’re asked
can become small acts of love.
She showed me that caring for people
is sometimes grand gestures,
but more often quiet things:
remembering how they take their coffee,
noticing when their smile looks heavy,
sitting beside them in silence
when there’s nothing left to say.
She taught me how to apologize sincerely,
how to listen fully,
how to love people even when they’re difficult.
How strength is not loudness,
but persistence.
How kindness does not make you weak.
How caring for others also means
learning when to rest,
when to forgive yourself,
when to keep going anyway.
And maybe that’s what mothers are:
women who keep loving
long after it would be easier not to.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 10:49 AM UTC
Some days feel heavy
before they even begin—
like the air is already asking too much of me,
like my chest is carrying a weight
it can’t quite name,
like I wake up already tired
of trying to hold everything together.
But then—
there are the small things.
The kind that don’t shout,
don’t demand attention,
don’t fix everything all at once—
but sit quietly
in the middle of ordinary moments
and whisper,
stay.
Like the way church feels
before the service even starts—
when I’m standing at the door,
smiling,
handing out bulletins,
saying hello like I mean it.
Because I do.
I see them—
the tired eyes,
the hesitant steps,
the ones who almost didn’t come.
And I greet them anyway,
like they matter—
because they do.
I hear their stories
in fragments between moments,
little pieces of their lives
they trust me enough to share,
and I carry them with me
long after they’ve walked inside.
And when they smile back,
when they say thank you
like it reached somewhere deeper than polite—
it settles in my chest
like quiet joy.
There are high fives
from my teens during greeting time—
quick, loud, full of life—
little reminders
that connection doesn’t have to be complicated.
And later,
youth group nights—
circles of chairs,
honest questions,
unfiltered laughter,
watching walls come down
one conversation at a time.
I love being there—
being someone they can trust,
someone who listens,
someone who stays.
And I love being there
on the other side too—
standing in the middle of the sanctuary,
surrounded by people who know my name,
who ask how I am and wait for the answer,
who wrap me in hugs that linger
just long enough to feel real.
Especially the older ones—
their kindness steady,
their words soft but sure,
the way they look at me
like they’ve been praying for me
without even saying it.
And in those moments,
I am not the one giving—
I am the one being given to.
Seen.
Heard.
Loved.
And it feels like grace—
like Jesus meeting me
through the hands and voices
of His people.
Because somewhere in all of this
a quiet prayer keeps forming in me—
let me be filled…with kindness,
help me to love…with open arms,
make my life tell of who You are.
So I do.
There’s chai in the morning,
or hot cocoa at night,
warmth in my hands
like something steady to hold onto—
like daily bread,
simple and enough.
There’s laughter—
late nights with friends,
board games scattered across the table,
rules forgotten,
joy unfiltered—
a glimpse of what it looks like
to be fully present,
fully alive.
There are walks—
slow, grounding,
where I remember how to breathe again,
where prayers come out in fragments
and somehow still feel heard.
Sitting by the water,
watching it move without striving—
like it trusts
the One who set it in motion.
There are photos,
little reminders
that God has been faithful before,
that He is not finished now.
Meals shared—
passing plates,
passing stories,
passing belonging—
like communion in everyday clothes.
A piece of candy,
sweet and simple,
a small kindness
that still reflects a generous God.
And sunsets—
soft, unhurried,
painting the sky like a promise
that endings are never the end
in His hands.
And then—
there is family.
Movie nights sprawled across couches,
half-watching, half-talking,
passing snacks like it’s part of the ritual.
Random trips to the store,
wandering aisles too long,
picking up things we don’t need—
because they might be good,
or because they’re funny,
or because joy
is worth choosing.
Baking with my granny—
flour dusted everywhere,
measuring loosely,
laughing between steps.
Singing in the car with her,
voices off-key and unashamed,
windows down,
like joy doesn’t need to be perfect
to be real.
Sitting with family
and listening—
to stories that carry weight,
to lives that have endured,
to wisdom spoken simply.
And I take it in—
their strength,
their steadiness,
the quiet faith
that has carried them this far.
The kind of faith
that anchors me too.
And even when distance stretches between us,
I feel them—
cheering me on,
praying for me,
loving me from afar.
A love that reflects His—
constant,
present,
unshaken by distance.
And in all of it—
I see Him.
In the laughter,
in the stillness,
in the warmth of a drink,
in the way people show up
for each other—
I see Jesus
in the small things.
And I want to be like that.
I want to be hope for people—
even if it’s small.
Even if it’s just a smile
as I pass someone in the community,
a quiet acknowledgment that says
you’re not invisible,
you are seen,
you are loved.
Because that’s what He does—
He notices,
He pauses,
He meets people
right where they are.
So I try—
in the quiet ways,
in the unnoticed moments—
to be Jesus for the one in front of me.
For the ones society forgets,
or overlooks,
or doesn’t slow down for—
the quiet ones,
the awkward ones,
the ones who don’t quite fit,
the ones who feel too much,
the ones who feel nothing at all,
the ones who sit alone,
the ones who joke to hide it,
the ones who are hurting quietly,
the ones who have been labeled,
misunderstood,
pushed aside.
The ones who almost didn’t come.
I hold doors open.
I remember names.
I ask questions and wait for real answers.
I sit longer than I planned to.
I make space.
I offer what I can—
a smile,
a seat,
a conversation,
a moment of being seen.
Because love
doesn’t always look like something big.
Sometimes it looks like
a high five,
a shared laugh,
a warm drink,
a late-night conversation,
a place at the table,
a hand held open.
So when the days feel heavy—
and they will—
I will still look for Him.
In the small things.
In the ordinary.
In the people.
And I will keep choosing
to notice,
to show up,
to give what I have—
again and again and again—
for the one in front of me.
Because maybe hope
isn’t far away.
Maybe it’s here—
in every small mercy,
every shared moment,
every quiet act of love.
Maybe it’s this—
a life poured out in little ways,
walking closely with Jesus,
until even the smallest things
become sacred.
May 4
May 4, 2026 at 4:46 PM UTC
If death found me at a quiet table—one of those corner booths with the worn seat and the faint smell of coffee in the air—and slid into the seat across from me, I don’t think I’d notice him right away. He wouldn’t make a scene. No sudden chill, no dramatic entrance. Just the soft scrape of a chair, the quiet clink of a glass set down across from mine.
He’d look like anyone else. Maybe a dark button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to feel ordinary. Clean, but not new. His hands steady on the table. But the air around him would feel… different. Not heavy. Just still. Like everything outside that booth kept moving, but right there, in that moment, time decided to slow down and listen.
And his eyes—
they’d be the only thing that didn’t fit.
Not cold. Not cruel. Just steady. Like he’s already seen how this goes. Like he’s been here a thousand times before and knows exactly what I’m about to feel.
He’d say it gently.
“You’ve got a few hours.”
And I’d blink at him, half-expecting a smile that tells me it’s a joke.
“A few hours?” I’d repeat, letting out a small, confused laugh.
But he wouldn’t smile.
And that’s when it would hit—slow, quiet, undeniable.
Because that’s not something you plan for.
You don’t wake up thinking your life will be measured in hours.
You think you have time to call later, to visit next week, to say things when it feels more convenient.
I’d look down at my hands then, maybe wrapped around a glass of something half-finished, and suddenly nothing about that moment would feel important anymore.
I think my first instinct would be to bargain for time—not out loud, not dramatically—but inside. Like if I just sat still long enough, maybe it wouldn’t be real.
But then I’d take a breath.
“Okay,” I’d say quietly, more to myself than to him. “Okay… then I need to use them right.”
He’d tilt his head slightly. “What does ‘right’ look like?”
And this time, there’d be no hesitation.
“I call my mom first,” I’d say. “Not a quick call. A real one. I let her talk as long as she wants. I tell her I love her at least three times so she knows I mean it. I thank her for the things I never noticed growing up—rides, meals, the way she showed up even when she was tired.”
“And my stepdad—I make sure he’s there too. I don’t rush past him. I thank him for choosing to be there, for stepping into a role he didn’t have to take on, for the ways he showed up quietly and consistently.”
“My dad—I call him next. I tell him thank you for teaching me how to be strong without being hard. I tell him I listened more than he thinks I did.”
“And my stepmom…” I’d pause for a second, choosing honesty over pretending. “I still call her. I still say thank you—for what she did do, for the ways she showed up even if it wasn’t perfect. I don’t leave anything bitter behind. I just let it be what it is, and I let it end in peace.”
“I call my siblings. I don’t rush it. I let there be silence if there needs to be. I remind them of inside jokes, little moments, things only we’d understand. I tell them they’ve always been part of my strength, even when I didn’t say it out loud.”
I’d pause, swallowing hard.
“And my grandparents… I call them if I can. I tell them I remember everything—the stories, the advice, the little things that didn’t seem big at the time but stayed with me. And if I can’t call them… I still say it out loud. Just in case somehow they hear me anyway.”
“Then I go home. I don’t stop anywhere. I just go home. I kick my shoes off by the door without caring where they land, and I sit on the floor.”
“My dogs would come over like they always do—tails wagging, not knowing anything’s different. And I’d just… hold them. Scratch behind their ears, let them lean into me. Maybe press my face into their fur and just stay there for a second longer than usual.”
“They wouldn’t understand. And I think that’s what would make it harder.” he says. I’d glance up at him, then keep going.
“I call my friends. Not all at once—one by one. I don’t text. I call. And when they answer, I don’t joke about it. I just say it: ‘I love you.’ I tell them what they meant to me. The exact things. The specific things. The times they showed up when I didn’t even ask.”
“And if I can, I go see a few people. Even if it’s just for a minute. I hug them—real hugs. The kind where you don’t let go too fast.”
“My professors… my mentors… I’d want to tell them they mattered. That something they said stuck. That something they did changed me.”
I’d take a shaky breath.
“And somewhere in there, I think I’d just sit. Maybe in my room. Maybe outside. And I’d think about how I hope I’m remembered.”
“Not for anything big,” I’d say. “Just… that I was kind. That I showed up. That I cared about people, even when it was inconvenient. That I fought for things that needed fixing, and for people who couldn’t fight for themselves.”
“That life didn’t make me hard. That even when it got heavy, I kept loving anyway.”
“That I smiled. That I tried.”
I’d look back at him.
“I don’t need them to say I was perfect. Just… that I meant it.”
He’d nod once, like he understood.
I’d hesitate, then add, “And I’d ask for one more thing. Just one.”
“What is it?” he asks:
“I’d want to hear It Is Well with My Soul. Not in the background. Not half-listening. I’d sit there and actually listen to it. Every word. Until it finally feels true.”
There’d be a quiet moment between us.
Then he’d say, “You’ll hear more than that.”
I think I’d believe him.
Eventually, I’d find my way back to that same table. Maybe the glass is still there. Maybe nothing looks different at all.
And he’d still be sitting there. Waiting, but not impatient.
“Did you use it well?” he’d ask.
And I’d think about it—the calls, the hugs, the words finally said out loud.
“Yeah,” I’d say softly. “I think I did.”
Then, quieter—
“I just want peace.”
He’d nod. “That part isn’t mine to give.”
“I know.” I reply
And when the time came, it wouldn’t feel sudden anymore.
It would feel… finished.
Like the end of a long day where you finally get to rest.
Something in me would loosen—slow and gentle—like setting down a weight I didn’t realize I’d been holding for years.
The room wouldn’t disappear all at once. It would soften. Fade at the edges.
“Come on,” he’d say.
And I’d follow.
The journey wouldn’t feel like moving through space. It would feel like being drawn forward—like something ahead of me is pulling me in, something familiar and good.
And the further I go, the lighter I feel. Every heavy thought, every fear, every quiet struggle I never said out loud—it all falls away. Not buried. Not ignored. Just… gone.
Until I feel like myself without the weight.
And then I’d see it.
Light. Warm, steady, not blinding.
And then—movement.
People.
Running.
And I’d know them instantly.
Every person I’ve ever loved who went before me—faces I’ve missed, voices I’ve held onto in memories—they’d be there. Whole. Laughing. Alive in a way I’ve never seen before.
My grandparents and great-grandparents, great aunts and uncles, everyone I've lost, among them—arms open, familiar and steady, like no time has passed at all.
Running toward me like no time has passed at all.
I wouldn’t walk. I’d run.
And when I reached them, I wouldn’t hold back. I’d hug them tight, like I didn’t get to before. No fear of losing them again. No time limit. Just being there.
Just staying.
And somewhere in it, music—clear and full—
It is well… it is well with my soul.
And this time, I’d believe it.
Then a voice—close, steady, full of something I’ve been searching for my whole life—
“Well done, good and faithful servant.”
And everything in me would finally be still.
No more fighting.
No more lonely nights.
No more wondering if I was enough.
Just peace.
Real, full, lasting peace.
And if I thought about that table one last time—about the man who sat across from me and gave me those few hours—
I’d understand.
He wasn’t there to take anything from me.
Just to remind me—
in the most honest way possible—
how much of my life
was love.
Apr 21
Apr 21, 2026 at 8:28 PM UTC
I am the oldest—
the blueprint no one admits they’re copying,
the backbone that isn’t supposed to ache,
the glue that holds
even when it’s starting to crack.
I am the example—
which means I am watched, measured,
quietly expected to get it right
without ever being shown how.
No one really asks how I’m doing—
not in a way that waits
for the honest answer.
They don’t see what it costs
to keep showing up,
to hold everything steady
with hands that are tired of shaking.
I have never really stopped.
Even my rest feels borrowed,
like I have to justify it.
They call it weakness
when I step back—
when I take a Sabbath,
when I choose to breathe
instead of break.
But if we’re meant to rest,
why does it feel wrong
when I do?
Even the people meant to guide me—
professors, friends, mentors—
don’t always understand.
They don’t see the weight,
only that I’m doing things differently.
They question my choices,
my timing,
my calling—
like there’s only one right way
to become who I’m meant to be.
And I wonder—
why does everything have to be
right or wrong?
Is being different so bad?
Is needing a mental health day
really failure?
When it all builds up,
I find myself at the altar—
quiet at first,
then not at all.
I cry because I need to,
because it’s the only way
to let the pressure out
without breaking everything around me.
And sometimes
that’s the only time people notice—
when I’m already overwhelmed,
when things start slipping,
when I don’t have anything left to give.
But most days,
I’m still giving everything I have.
Even when it’s hard
to get out of bed,
to show up to class,
to take care of myself—
I try.
I try
because I care,
because I’ve always cared,
because being the oldest
taught me how.
There’s a part of me
that wants to leave—
to follow the calling in my chest,
to build a life that feels like mine.
But I’ve always been needed here.
And sometimes
it feels like wanting something different
isn’t allowed.
Still—
I’m starting to wonder
what I want.
Not what’s expected.
Not what’s easiest for everyone else.
Just… me.
And somewhere in the quiet,
in the middle of all this weight,
there is a voice that doesn’t demand—
only invites:
come to Me,
all who are weary,
all who are carrying too much,
and I will give you rest.
Not more expectations,
not another standard to meet—
just rest.
A place to set it down,
to loosen my grip,
to let Someone stronger
carry what I was never meant to hold alone.
I’m learning
that maybe I can rest
without failing,
that maybe I can take a step back
and still be someone people can trust.
I’m learning
that I don’t have to carry everything
to be strong.
That being human
doesn’t make me weak.
And maybe
I don’t have to be perfect
to be worthy—
not to them,
and not to God.
Maybe being seen by Him
means I don’t have to prove so much.
Maybe it’s okay
to take things one step at a time,
to listen for His voice
instead of everyone else’s.
I don’t have it all figured out.
I still feel the weight.
But I’m trying—
to rest when I need to,
to breathe when it’s heavy,
to believe that I am allowed
to take up space in my own life.
And maybe that’s where it starts—
not with letting everything go,
but with learning, slowly,
that even here,
even now—
I was never carrying it alone.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 8:27 PM UTC
When the night leans heavy on your shoulders
and the dark hums low beneath your skin,
when the gravel road of your thoughts
keeps winding you back again—
past the fences you swore you mended,
past the fields you tried to leave,
past the quiet voice that told you
you were more than what you grieve—
come sit here.
On the splintered porch at twilight,
where the sky bleeds pink and gold,
where the air smells like forgiveness
and the stories don’t get old.
You don’t have to speak in sermons,
you don’t have to earn your rest,
you don’t have to prove you’re worthy
just to lay your head and chest
against something steady, breathing—
something human, something true.
We all need somebody sometimes.
Let me be that here for you.
There’s a rhythm in the country silence,
in the cicadas’ steady choir,
in the way the world keeps turning
without asking you for fire.
You don’t have to keep on burning
just to prove that you can shine—
even lanterns need a moment
just to cool between the time.
And I know you’ve heard it whispered—
that you’re running out of days,
that if you don’t become something soon
you’ll get lost inside the haze.
But slow down—
there’s a wisdom in the waiting,
in the long and winding while,
in the way a life can gather
in the space of just a mile.
You’re not late, you’re not forgotten,
you’re not failing some design—
you’re just standing in your moment,
learning how to call it mine.
Lean a little when you’re weary,
when the road is hard and long—
we all need a hand to hold to,
we all need a borrowed song.
Not a perfect, shining chorus,
not a voice that drowns your own—
just a harmony that finds you
when you feel you’re all alone.
We’ll build something out of nothing,
out of laughter, out of grace—
not a mansion, not a promise,
just a small and sacred place.
Our house—
with the screen door always creaking,
with the radio playing low,
with the light left on in windows
just in case you lose your way home.
With bare feet on worn-out floorboards,
with your name spoken soft and slow,
with the kind of love that doesn’t
need a reason just to grow.
And if the world grows sharp around you,
if it teaches you to close,
we will choose a different ending,
we will soften what it knows.
We will teach our hearts to listen,
we will teach our hands to stay,
we will plant a gentler future
in the dust of yesterday.
Take your past out of the shadows,
let it breathe, let it be seen—
it is more than just a burden,
it is part of what you mean.
And when it hits—
like thunder rolling through you,
like the ground won’t hold your weight,
like a landslide in your memory
you don’t know how to escape—
I will stand there in the shifting,
in the breaking, in the fall.
You don’t have to brace forever;
you don’t have to hold it all.
Not because I know the answers,
not because I’ll make it right—
but because I won’t abandon
you to fight it in the night.
And listen—
there is something I have learned
from broken things that still remain:
There is an art to all this mending—
not with glue that hides the seam,
but with something bright and honest,
something closer to a dream.
Where the cracks are traced with gold dust,
where the fractures are displayed,
not as shame or something ruined,
but as something gently made
into beauty through the breaking,
into strength through every fall—
like the pieces didn’t matter
until they shattered after all.
You are not what tried to break you.
You are what refused to stay
in the shape they left you in that day.
And like stained glass in an old church window,
set crooked in a wooden frame,
every shard of you catches sunlight
just a little bit different, just the same.
Red and amber, blue and aching,
every color you conceal—
it’s the light that makes it holy,
but the breaking makes it real.
So when the morning finally finds you,
when it slips between the trees,
when it spills across your fractures
and rests easy in the breeze—
you will see it:
how the cracks don’t steal your beauty,
how they let the beauty through.
How the light does not avoid you—
it is drawn to what you’ve been through.
So don’t hide your lines of healing,
don’t erase where you have bent,
don’t pretend you were unbroken
just to seem more permanent.
There is something far more lasting
in a heart that’s been remade—
in the gold along the edges,
in the places love has stayed.
Time will try to rush your healing,
tell you who you ought to be,
say you’re running out of moments
you haven’t even seen.
But time is just a river winding
through the fields you’ve yet to roam—
you are not behind or losing,
you are learning how to go home.
So breathe—
like the wind across the pasture,
like the trees that bend but stay,
like the quiet kind of courage
that doesn’t need to say
anything at all to prove it—
just existing is enough.
Lean a little—
when the world feels hard and heavy,
when the road feels far too rough.
Lean a little—
like a tired song at midnight,
like a voice that’s almost gone,
like a heart that’s finally learning
it was never meant to be strong
all alone.
And if your light begins to flicker,
if your faith runs thin and slow,
I will sit beside the dimness—
I won’t need it bright to know
you are still worth every second,
still enough in every state,
still becoming something honest,
still allowed to hesitate.
Maybe love is not a rescue.
Maybe it’s not meant to save.
Maybe it’s just two people choosing
not to leave when things cave.
Maybe it’s the longest quiet,
shared beneath a country sky,
with the stars like distant promises
you don’t have to justify.
Maybe it’s the softest answer
to the question you can’t speak—
“I am tired. I am breaking.”
“I am here. You can lean on me.”
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 10:21 PM UTC
I was born into a role, not a moment—
crowned eldest before I learned how to be small,
before I knew how to need anything,
before I knew I was allowed to fall.
They placed invisible hands on my shoulders,
called it “maturity,” called it “grace,”
but it felt like learning how to disappear
while keeping a smile stitched onto my face.
I became fluent in tension—
in the language of footsteps down the hall,
in the pitch of a voice just before it breaks,
in the silence that follows it all.
I learned how to read rooms before books,
how to steady the air when it shifted wrong,
how to carry the weight of everyone’s world
and convince myself I was strong.
Strong meant quiet.
Strong meant bending.
Strong meant never asking why.
Strong meant holding everyone together
while something in me learned to die.
And no one writes songs for girls like me—
the ones who became before they began,
who stitched themselves into safety nets
and called it “just part of the plan.”
There are ghosts in the way I love people,
in how quickly I give, how slowly I trust,
in how I brace for abandonment
even when someone swears they won’t leave me to dust.
There are tremors beneath my “I’m okay,”
fault lines hidden under skin,
a war that never got a closing chapter,
just a quiet place to live within.
They say I’m resilient like it’s holy,
like survival is something to praise,
but they never saw the nights I unraveled,
or the fog of those endless days.
They never saw me mourn a childhood
I can’t quite name but know I missed,
never saw the girl who needed saving
learn to survive by clenching her fists.
And they say pressure makes diamonds,
so why am I still coal?
Why do I carry all this weight
and still feel split down to my soul?
Why does healing feel like breaking
open wounds I tried to seal?
Why does safety feel so foreign
when it’s all I’ve begged to feel?
I’ve been buried under expectation,
under “be the first,” under “make us proud,”
first to dream beyond the limits,
first to say the quiet parts out loud.
First to chase a different future,
first to carve a brand new name,
first to carry generations forward
while still learning how to hold my pain.
I am the bridge and the breaking,
the proof and the cost of the climb,
a lineage shifting inside of me
one boundary at a time.
And some days I hate the calling—
hate how heavy it can be,
hate that I am still becoming
someone I’ve never gotten to see.
Because I don’t know how to hold this future
without grieving everything behind,
don’t know how to rest in the present
with a past that rewired my mind.
I don’t know how to be soft without fear,
how to be loved without bracing the fall,
don’t know how to believe I am worthy
without proving it first to them all.
But I am learning—
slowly, painfully, honestly learning—
that strength is not the absence of ache,
that survival is not the same as living,
that there is still so much of me to wake.
I am learning that I can set boundaries
without setting myself on fire,
that I can be both healing and hurting,
both exhausted and still full of desire.
That the girl who held everyone together
deserved someone to hold her too,
that the love I poured into others
was always meant to reach me through.
Maybe I am not unfinished—
maybe I am unfolding instead,
every broken piece a doorway,
every tear a word unsaid.
Maybe I was never meant
to become something polished and cold,
never meant to be a diamond—
because diamonds don’t feel,
don’t fracture, don’t fight to stay whole.
Maybe I was meant to be fire-born,
to carry both shadow and soul,
to be something softer, something burning—
because even coal remembers the sun,
even coal holds heat in its core,
even coal, when given the right kind of love,
can become so much more.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 9:53 PM UTC