You were never asked to be unyielding—
never summoned to rise without faltering,
nor to walk unshaken across uncertain ground.
Only to breathe—
gently, if unevenly—
when breath felt more like a burden than a gift.

Only to place one foot before the other,
not with assurance,
but with the quiet resolve
of one who continues
simply because they must.

And still—you were borne onward.
Not by the weight of your own will,
but by a mercy so quiet
it moved beneath notice,
and yet never once withdrew.

You were held
in the long pause between sorrows,
in the hollow where words had once been prayers,
in the soft, unlit spaces
where strength was no longer required,
only presence.

Even then—
when hope had grown faint
and the days passed without promise—
you were not forgotten.
You were not unseen.

What carried you
was not the fire you struggled to tend,
but something older,
gentler—
a grace unearned,
a kindness without condition,
steadier than belief.

So if you find yourself weary again—
not from weakness,
but from the sacred labor
of enduring—
rest.

Not in your own power,
but in the quiet assurance
that you are still—
even now—
carried.

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