There were days I felt like life was moving for everyone else except me. I’d wake up with a quiet ache in my chest, scrolling through other people’s highlight reels, wondering why life seemed to put me on pause — as if it were testing my patience. I tried to stay optimistic, hopeful. But deep down, I couldn’t stop fighting the demons in my mind — the ones that kept whispering I was falling behind, missing something important. I kept shutting that voice down, but no answer ever came loud enough to silence the ache.
Still, somehow, I kept going. Maybe I was born a fighter. I read, I reflected, I cried — often in the still of the night when no one was watching. And slowly, something started to shift. The chaos inside quieted. The voices became softer. I began to notice the way I was speaking to myself — a little more gently. The way I kept showing up, even when my heart felt heavy. I started to understand that stillness doesn’t mean stagnation. That some of the quietest seasons are also the most sacred ones.
I realized the universe had heard every silent prayer — every time I sat in quiet desperation, wishing, hoping for something to change. And it was responding. Not always in the way I expected, but always in the way I needed. I’ve learned to embrace the slow mornings, the unplanned detours, the deep, soul-stirring conversations. I’ve come to love the way the universe works — in its own divine timing, in its own mysterious flow — and to trust that something beautiful is always in motion, even if I can’t see it yet.
So I’ll keep going. I’ll keep believing.