There are nights when I sit beside my own shadow,
listening to the ping of what I could have been.
The air feels heavy with unspoken names,
dreams I once wore like perfume,
fading now, yet lingering just enough
to remind me of the scent of becoming.
Am I not good enough, I ask the silence,
and silence, faithful as ever,
answers only in stillness.
It does not mock, nor comfort,
it simply waits for me to stop trembling
long enough to hear what waits beneath the question.
Maybe it is not goodness that life requires,
but surrender.
Not the polished edge of certainty,
but the soft pulse of trying again,
of waking up when your faith
feels like a wilted flower,
and still, you place it in the sun.
Somewhere between pride and pain,
I learned that worth is not proven by applause.
It is born in the unseen moments,
in the reaching, the forgiving,
the quiet mending of one’s own heart
when no one is looking.
So tonight, I will not ask if I am enough.
I will simply be.
I will sit with my half finished grace
and call it me.
