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.
You have come this far—
not untouched by sorrow, nor spared by silence,
but through nights that emptied you of light
and mornings that arrived without promise.
You crossed thresholds no one witnessed,
gathering your breath as one gathers embers,
guarding the flame with hands that trembled
yet refused to let it die.
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.
When the sky folds inward,
heavy with hush,
and your own reflection falters
beneath the dimming of its light—
when the remnants of yesterday
cling to the hollows of breath
like smoke in still air—
Be still.
Inhale not urgency,
but the quiet sanctity of grace.
Let the pause between heartbeats
speak what time cannot touch:
You are not behind.
You are not broken.
You are becoming—still.
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