It doesn’t come in leaps,
not in fireworks
or sudden flight.
It comes in the gentle way
your hands stop shaking
when you hold the day.
In the morning,
you rise without apology.
That is something.
Your breath no longer
catches on the memory.
That is everything.
You laugh,
and it’s real—not borrowed
from someone braver.
You speak,
and your voice is your own,
not an echo of surviving.
There was a time
when even the light felt heavy,
when hours dragged
like chains through your chest.
Now the minutes
tread more softly—
and so do you.
A crack in the wall
lets in a breeze.
You don’t fix it.
You let it stay.
You learn that healing
isn’t sealing
but softening.
And look—
you’re still here.
Not just surviving.
Becoming.
Stronger in the quiet,
steadier in the storm,
better,
not all at once—
but better
all the time.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
Discover more from Writing Through the Soul
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
