We are always healing,
in the hush between heartbeats,
in the quiet that follows the breaking—
something mends.
Not loudly, not with fanfare,
but like roots inching through stone,
like light finding its way
through the cracks we tried to hide.
We carry old names in our bones,
memories that echo in scars,
but the skin remembers how to close,
and the soul—how to rise.
Some days, healing is a prayer,
barely whispered,
a hand reaching in the dark,
not for answers,
just for warmth.
Other days, it’s a roar,
a step forward with trembling legs,
choosing joy
even when grief still sleeps beside us.
We are always healing—
not broken, not unworthy—
just becoming
again and again.
And there is beauty in that.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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