This season has been about becoming a new me. Not by discarding who I was, but by gathering every shattered piece and offering it mercy.
It has been some time since my words last found their way here. I have been absent, yes, but not idle. Life has kept me occupied, gathering me into a silent sanctuary where I could tend to the neglected garden of my own soul.
I have been busy with the slow, deliberate work of mending. Of standing in the wreckage of all I thought I was, allowing the brittle walls to crumble beneath my trembling hands. There is something sacred in breaking. Something transformative in the way it strips us of our illusions and leaves us raw enough to truly begin again.
I have been stretching my mind beyond its old borders, chasing after the unlit corners of my potential. I have tried to be here, fully here, to let the sun warm my upturned face, to listen when laughter arrives, to sit with sorrow without rushing it along.
And perhaps most revealing of all, I have begun opening myself to others in ways I never dared before. I am learning there is grace in vulnerability. In saying, this is where I hurt… this is where I hope.
So this season has been about becoming a new me. Not by discarding who I was, but by gathering every shattered piece and offering it mercy. I am rebuilding with softer hands. And maybe, just maybe, I am beginning to know and embrace the human I am – imperfect and gloriously unfinished.
