It starts small,
a whisper, a flicker, a timid flame
in the middle of a vast, cold expanse.
You crave heat, but the fire takes its time,
growing only in the pauses, in the inches,
in the moments you almost gave up.

Progress is no storm
it's a soft drizzle on a thirsty earth,
seeping in quiet, unnoticed, until one day,
the roots push deeper, the stems grow taller.

You're tempted to curse the slowness,
the aching drag of it.
But to quit would be to stop the sun from rising,
to smother the flame with your own hand.

The world says "rush" while the earth whispers "wait."
And here you stand,
in the stillness, in the in-between,
learning the sacred art of slow.

Your heart is both warrior and sage,
carving a path where no path was,
each step a triumph, even when it feels like nothing.

You have already begun.
These small beginnings,
they are the birthplace of your mountains,
the cradle of your storms.

Do not despise the tender shoots that have yet to bloom,
for they will become forests if you let them.

Quitting would only steal the story
you were meant to tell,
a story written not in leaps,
but in a thousand quiet breaths of progress.

So hold fast.
This is your time,
your fire is growing.

Believe in the slow,
in the unseen,
in the yet-to-be.
You got this.