When strength slips softly from your grasp—
not with anguish, but with quiet,
and the morning’s light, once golden,
arrives as a burden too delicate to bear—
let mercy meet you where you are.

To pause is not to falter.
To rest is not to recede.
Even the most steadfast flame
has moments of tender dimming.

There is quiet majesty
in the breath that lingers through weariness,
in the heart that, though hushed,
continues its sacred rhythm.

Sanctify your stillness.
Let the ache beneath your ribs
be not judged, but understood—
a silent testament to all you carry.

For the tide, too, withdraws
to commune with the deep.
And stars, though hidden,
do not forget how to shine.

You are not diminished in this pause.
You are not less for needing time.
The world may turn without waiting—
but you were never meant
to chase its pace.

You were made
for seasons of becoming,
for the slow art of mending,
for the sacred hush
before the rising.

So let yourself rest—
not in apology,
but in reverence.

You are not lost.
You are gathering.

And when you rise—
as you will—
it shall be not as you were,
but as something deeper,
truer,
whole.

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