We are the fractured generation,
heartbroken, half-alive,
dragging shadows of what we once were.
Damaged souls, bruised hearts,
each scar a story we wish we could forget—
of nights spent drowning in silence,
of mornings heavy with invisible chains.

We carry the weight of too much,
heirlooms of trauma passed down like curses,
relationships that unraveled us,
memories that cling like burrs to skin.
And yet, somehow, we fight—
hoping, praying,
aching to be whole,
to be free.

Free from the shackles of what was,
from the guilt that gnaws at our joy,
the shame that smothers our laughter.
We long to breathe without breaking,
to feel happiness without questioning
if we deserve it.

I see it in us—
this yearning for warmth,
for love that doesn’t wound,
for acceptance that feels real.
But before we seek the light in others,
we must dare to find it in ourselves.

And God, how hard that is.
To sit with the emptiness,
to fight the storm inside,
to believe there is a flicker of good
in the ruins of who we are.
We try, but it feels like too much.
We stumble, we sink, we shatter again.

But I learned something in the breaking.
I learned to let go.
Not into the void,
but into His hands.
It was the hardest thing I’ve done—
to give Him the weight
I thought I had to carry alone.
But in doing so, I found
a breath I hadn’t taken in years.

Peace doesn’t come in a flood,
but in the quiet moments
when I remember I’m not unworthy.
Joy doesn’t erupt,
but grows slowly, tenderly,
like a seed breaking through the cracks.

I’m not there yet,
but I’m lighter than I was.
And I hope—
no, I pray—
that you find Him too.
That you give Him your heavy,
your broken, your bruised.
Even if you feel unworthy,
He says you are not.

And one day, we’ll breathe easily.
We’ll laugh without hesitation,
love without fear,
live from within,
not just on the outside.
One day, we’ll finally
be alive.