#2025 - Hello Poetry

2025 felt like a winter that forgot to end. Each morning arrived like a great tide against the shore… not violent, but relentless. The clock kept its promises, but my spirit didn’t. It lagged behind the day like a shadow, too tired to follow. I carried my calling like a coat soaked through with rain, heavy, even when the storm passed in the day had ended. Some nights I swore I’d wrung it dry, only to find the fabric wet again... Burnout is a strange fire; it doesn’t rage, it smolders. Quietly eating the beams of the house while the walls still stand. And I remember thinking, “ how long can a soul live in smoke before it forgets what clean air feels like?” but even the longest winter has a hidden hinge. There were mornings where the light slipped through the blinds like a letter from somewhere higher. It wasn’t loud nor miraculous. Just enough to whisper, “you are not abandoned here.” Because faith, I’ve learned, it’s not always thunder. Sometimes, it is simply the stubborn act of opening your eyes again. Of planting hope in frozen soil and trusting that God remembers spring, even when we do not. It is a turning. A quiet decision made in the bones that I will not surrender my mornings to the fog that once claimed them. That the weight I carried was never meant to be my name. And if the storm returns – as storms often do – I will remember the sky is not the rain. And the same God who held the stars in place last night is still holding the small, flickering courage in my chest. So, I walk forward now, not fearless, but certain. Like the first green sprout pushing through the frost, knowing nothing about the weather, only that the sun is on its way.

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Mar 27

Mar 27, 2026 at 11:00 AM UTC

cyn-liss

Between Winters

2025 felt like a winter that forgot to end. Each morning arrived like a great tide against the shore… not violent, but relentless. The clock kept its promises, but my spirit didn’t. It lagged behind the day like a shadow, too tired to follow. I carried my calling like a coat soaked through with rain, heavy, even when the storm passed in the day had ended. Some nights I swore I’d wrung it dry, only to find the fabric wet again... Burnout is a strange fire; it doesn’t rage, it smolders. Quietly eating the beams of the house while the walls still stand. And I remember thinking, “ how long can a soul live in smoke before it forgets what clean air feels like?” but even the longest winter has a hidden hinge. There were mornings where the light slipped through the blinds like a letter from somewhere higher. It wasn’t loud nor miraculous. Just enough to whisper, “you are not abandoned here.” Because faith, I’ve learned, it’s not always thunder. Sometimes, it is simply the stubborn act of opening your eyes again. Of planting hope in frozen soil and trusting that God remembers spring, even when we do not. It is a turning. A quiet decision made in the bones that I will not surrender my mornings to the fog that once claimed them. That the weight I carried was never meant to be my name. And if the storm returns – as storms often do – I will remember the sky is not the rain. And the same God who held the stars in place last night is still holding the small, flickering courage in my chest. So, I walk forward now, not fearless, but certain. Like the first green sprout pushing through the frost, knowing nothing about the weather, only that the sun is on its way.