It does not shout,
this healing—
no trumpets mark
the moment pain begins to lift.
It comes like dawn
through a fogged window,
soft,
unsure,
slow.
Each breath is borrowed
from a time before the break,
each step
a negotiation
between will and wound.
There is no glory here—
only grit,
and a kind of quiet grace
in trying again.
The world rushes,
but the body lingers,
and the heart,
oh the heart
takes its own pace—
learning to trust
what was once trusted.
Some days are still
all ache and undoing.
Some nights
pull the past like a thread
through the mind’s soft fabric.
But even then,
something mends,
cell by cell,
word by word,
a tiny, defiant stitch
in the silence.
This is not defeat.
This is the long labor
of returning—
not as you were,
but as you are becoming.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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