Diamonds in the Fire

Here and now, I’m in the fire — not a gentle warmth, but the kind that burns hot enough to test everything inside me. I’m in above my head, waves crashing harder than I thought I could endure, the weight pressing down so heavy I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever breathe freely again. It feels like I’m being held under the pressure, not sure what I’ll have left when it finally eases. There are days I don’t even recognize the reflection in the mirror — a woman worn thin from battles seen and unseen, from carrying more than her share of burdens.

But even here, in the middle of the heat, something unexpected is happening. In the very places I thought were ruined beyond repair, I’m finding small glimmers — treasures hidden in the ashes. Moments where I see grace in a stranger’s kindness. Moments when love shows up quietly, steady as a heartbeat. Moments where my own strength surprises me. It’s in these ashes that I’m reminded: God is still at work.

He’s making diamonds out of dust. That means He’s taking the broken pieces, the gritty remnants of all I’ve lost, and pressing them into something strong and beautiful. Diamonds are only made through unimaginable heat and relentless pressure — and maybe that’s what this season is for me. The fire isn’t here to destroy me; it’s here to refine me.

Refining is not comfortable. It strips away what’s not needed, exposes the weak spots, and demands that I let go of the things I’ve been clinging to for far too long. But in His timing, not mine, the refining produces something far more valuable than I can see right now. I might feel cracked, scorched, and buried in dust — but He is not finished with me yet.

He’s making diamonds out of us — out of me, out of Tim, out of this life that feels so messy and uncertain. The process is painful, yes, but I believe that one day I will look back and see the beauty in what He was shaping all along. For now, I hold onto the promise that no fire can burn away what He intends to keep, and no amount of pressure can crush what He is making new.

So I will stay here, in the here and now, trusting that the One who began a good work in me will carry it to completion. The fire will not have the last word — the diamond will.

When Family Stops Acting Like Family

There comes a point in life where the weight of being ignored, dismissed, and discarded becomes too heavy to carry. I’ve spent years swallowing my hurt, making excuses for people who share my blood, and hoping — always hoping — that one day they’d come back to me. But lately, I’m realizing the truth: some people will never care, no matter how much you’ve given them. And that realization, as devastating as it is, might be the very thing that finally sets me free.

I divorced my first husband twenty years ago because he beat me every single day. I left to survive. I left to reclaim my life. And when I remarried, when Tim came into my world, my kids were already grown. My two oldest grandchildren were small back then, and they came to Christmas with us, laughed in our home, tore open presents under the tree. For a time, I thought maybe we could still have that connection. But looking back, I think they came because of what we would give them, not because they truly wanted to be part of our lives. Because now that they are grown, now that they don’t need anything from me, they ignore me completely.

Recently, I found out from a friend — not from them — that both of my oldest grandchildren got engaged. No phone call. No message. Not even a passing word. Just another reminder that I am not on their radar, not someone they think of when it comes to the milestones of their lives. That kind of exclusion doesn’t just sting — it cuts right through to the core. It’s a loud, silent message: “You’re not important to us.”

And then there’s my daughter. Eighteen years ago, she threw me away like I was nothing, and she never looked back. She has a three-year-old child that I have never met.

As for all my children, not once in all this year and a half have they reached out and asked how I’m doing, how Tim is doing, or if there’s anything I need. They know what Tim and I are facing — his PNES, his depression, the hard days where I’m holding both of us together — and still, silence.

People will tell you, “But they’re family.” As if blood should excuse cruelty. As if DNA gives someone the right to take and take without ever giving. But I’ve learned the hard way that family is not defined by shared genetics; it’s defined by love, respect, and presence. And if someone can’t give those, then they aren’t family in the ways that truly matter.

I’m tired. Tired of being the bigger person. Tired of holding out hope for a change that never comes. Tired of giving my heart to people who have proven they will not take care of it. Maybe one day they’ll realize what they’ve lost. Maybe they won’t. Either way, I can’t keep pouring myself into a void and calling it love.

From here on out, I choose peace. I choose to invest my heart in those who truly see me, who value me, who show up. My circle may be smaller, but it will be real. And for once, that feels like enough.

You Haven’t Seen The Last Of Me

Some days, I don’t even know how I’m still standing. I wake up already feeling worn down, like the fight started before I even opened my eyes. There’s a heaviness that never quite goes away—an invisible weight that clings to me no matter how much I try to shake it off. Some people wouldn’t notice it if they looked at me. I smile. I go through the motions. I try to keep things moving. But beneath that surface, it’s a different story. I feel broken—like pieces of myself have been chipped away slowly over time, and I’m barely holding on. Yet, no matter how broken I feel, there’s still something deep inside me that won’t quit. A flicker. A fire. A part of me that refuses to stay down.

I’ve been brought to my knees more times than I can count. Life has a way of doing that—bringing you to the edge, then pushing you past it just to see if you’ll break. And maybe I did break, for a moment. Maybe I’ve cried more tears in silence than I care to admit. Maybe I’ve screamed into the void, wondering if anyone sees, anyone hears, anyone understands. I’ve been through seasons where I didn’t know how I would make it another day, but I did. I kept going. Even when it felt like I was crawling. Even when everything in me wanted to give up, I didn’t. I held on. And somehow, I’m still here.

There is a strength in me I can’t always explain. It’s not loud or boastful. It doesn’t come from confidence or ease. It comes from surviving. From pushing through every “I can’t” moment and turning it into “I did.” It comes from getting back up when no one expected me to. From rebuilding after every fall. From whispering “not yet” every time life tried to silence me. Don’t count me out. Not now. Not ever. You see, I’ve been pushed way past the point of breaking—but I can take it. I may bend, I may falter, I may cry, but I don’t quit.

This is not the end of my story. I refuse to fade into the background or disappear under the weight of everything I’ve endured. There will be no fade out. No final scene just yet. Because even now, when I’m down and hurting and worn, I can feel it—the strength rising again. The determination waking up. The voice inside me saying, “You’re not done.” I will be back. Back on my feet. Back to the fight. Back to the version of me that doesn’t settle for defeat. This is far from over. You haven’t seen the last of me.

There is so much more to me than what I’ve lost, more than what’s hurt me, more than what I’ve been through. I was built for hard things. I was built tough. I carry the kind of resilience that only pain can teach. The kind of fire that keeps burning even when the world grows cold. I’ve learned how to be strong because I’ve had no other choice. And now, I’m going to show the world exactly what I’m made of.

I’ll rise again—not for applause or recognition—but because I have dreams left to chase. I have healing still to walk through. I have people to love and stories to tell. I have light inside me, even if it dims sometimes. And every single time I’ve felt like giving up, that light somehow keeps me going. It reminds me of all the times I thought I couldn’t go on—but did anyway. It reminds me that the same power that got me this far will carry me the rest of the way. I’ve already survived so much. That alone makes me unstoppable.

There is beauty in brokenness. There is wisdom in the wounds. There is something incredibly powerful about a person who’s been knocked down and still finds a way to stand tall. I may not have it all together. I may still feel raw and tired and unsure. But I know who I am. I know what I’ve come through. And I know I’m not done yet. The pain I’ve faced has made me more empathetic. The battles I’ve fought have made me more courageous. And the fact that I’m still here—still trying, still hoping—that’s proof enough that I’m not going anywhere.

So let the world see me now. Let them see the bruises, the scars, the moments I doubted myself. Let them see it all. Because it’s all part of the story. A story not of defeat—but of rising. Of refusing to stay down. Of rebuilding something even stronger out of the ashes. This isn’t just survival. This is strength. This is purpose. This is resilience. This is me.

So if you’re looking at me and thinking I’ve given up, if you think I’m too far gone, too tired, too damaged—look again. Watch closely. Because I’m still here. I’m still breathing. I’m still fighting. And I’m only getting stronger. You haven’t seen the last of me. Not by a long shot.

And Still, I Rise – A Thousand Times Again

Some days, it feels like I’m holding the world together with nothing but threadbare hope and a stubborn heartbeat. I wake up and the weight is still there—heavy, constant, relentless. You don’t plan for your life to feel like a merry-go-round that spins you in circles until you’re dizzy, until even the good moments blur with the painful ones. But here I am, standing in the wreckage of what once felt solid. And yet somehow, I’m still here. You’re broken down and tired… Yes. That’s me. That’s us.

There have been so many days I couldn’t find the fighter in myself. Days when I looked at the man I love—the one who still makes my heart ache with tenderness—and saw him slipping further from the life he once knew. Tim’s PNES, his battle with depression, the trauma that has gripped him so tightly… it’s been a storm without mercy. There were moments I didn’t know if we’d ever see the sun again. There were moments I held him while he seized, powerless to stop it, but desperate to carry him through.

And in those moments, I couldn’t find the fighter in me either. I felt so small. So tired. But somehow… I always saw something in him. Even when he couldn’t see it in himself. I saw the man who keeps trying. I saw the one who’s still here, still breathing, still holding my hand through the darkness. And in his fight, I found mine. So we walk it out. One foot in front of the other. Together. And we move mountains.

We have moved mountains.

Maybe not the kind you can see. But the kind you feel—the emotional ones, the invisible ones, the kind made of pain and patience and courage. We’ve moved mountains of fear and shame, of uncertainty and grief. We’ve walked through fire and came out burned, yes, but not broken beyond repair.

I think of the girl I used to be—full of plans, of light, of simplicity. And I mourn her sometimes. But I also honor the woman I’ve become. Because this version of me? She’s strong. Worn, but not defeated. Scarred, but not bitter. I’ve been forced to rise when I didn’t feel ready. I’ve had to stand back up after being knocked down by life, by love, by circumstances that were never fair.

And still, I rise.

I rise like the day, like the morning sun that shows up even when the sky is filled with storm clouds. I rise unafraid—no, not because I’m fearless, but because love gives me the courage to keep going when everything else says stop. I rise high like the waves, strong and persistent and crashing against every wall that tries to hold us back. I rise in spite of the ache, in spite of the exhaustion, in spite of the tears that fall quietly into my pillow when no one else is watching.

I rise for him. I rise because love is not passive—it is fierce. It’s standing in the gap when someone you love is too weak to fight. It’s believing in better days even when today feels like too much. I rise because he’s worth it. We are worth it. And I would do it all again—a thousand times again—if that’s what it takes to help him find his way back to himself.

There’s something sacred in the fight we fight each day. In the decision to keep showing up, even when we’re broken. In the way we choose love over despair, healing over hiding. Yes, the world feels heavy. But we don’t carry it alone.

So to anyone who feels broken down and tired, stuck on their own spinning merry-go-round of pain—know this: you are not alone. And even if you can’t find the fighter in yourself right now, someone else sees it in you. I see it in us. And as long as we keep walking, one day at a time, we will keep moving mountains.

And we will keep rising. Again, and again, and again. For love. For hope. For healing.

For you.

The Beauty of Small Beginnings

We live in a world that celebrates the big moments—milestones, promotions, grand gestures, and picture-perfect announcements. It’s easy to believe that progress only counts if it’s loud, visible, and impressive enough to post online. But the truth is, most of the beautiful transformations in life don’t start with fireworks. They start quietly, in the unseen, in the moments no one else is clapping for. They begin small.

Small beginnings are easy to overlook because they don’t look like much. A seed is buried in the dirt, unseen for weeks before it dares to break through the surface. The first rays of dawn are soft and pale, not blinding like the midday sun. Even a great journey starts with nothing more than the decision to take one small step forward. In my own life, I’ve learned that the most meaningful change isn’t about one huge leap—it’s about stringing together small steps, day after day, until one day you look back and realize how far you’ve come.

When you’re going through something hard, like walking through the uncertainty of my husband’s PNES diagnosis, it’s easy to get lost in the “all or nothing” mindset. You want a solution. You want healing. You want the weight lifted all at once. But often, God doesn’t work that way. Instead, He gives us small mercies, quiet victories, and glimpses of light in the dark—each one a seed of hope planted in our hearts.

I think of the times when the smallest things have made the biggest difference:

• A good night’s sleep after weeks of restless nights.
• A moment of laughter breaking the tension of a hard day.
• A friend who sends a text out of the blue, reminding you that you’re not forgotten.
• A morning where my husband wakes up without fear in his eyes.

None of those moments would make the evening news. They’re not the kind of stories people write headlines about. But they are life-giving. They are the reminders that even when the journey is long, God is moving in the details.

The beauty of small beginnings is that they teach us patience. We live in a microwave culture, but God is a slow cooker God. He lets things simmer and develop, shaping us in the process. And though waiting can be hard—painfully hard—it allows us to notice things we would otherwise rush past. We learn to appreciate the quiet before the breakthrough, the strength that builds in the in-between.

Small beginnings also give us space to grow without the pressure of perfection. When a seed breaks through the soil, no one criticizes it for being tiny. They celebrate the fact that it’s alive. We need to extend that same grace to ourselves. Celebrate the little wins: getting out of bed on a hard day, showing up for your loved one, taking time to rest when your body and soul are weary. Those are seeds, too, and they are worth honoring.

There’s also a quiet trust that forms in small beginnings. You don’t always see the outcome right away, but you believe it’s coming. You water the seed, you nurture it, and you wait. And somewhere deep down, you trust that the God who made the oak tree can bring beauty from your little acorn of faith.

One of my favorite verses says, “Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin” (Zechariah 4:10). That means God isn’t just standing at the finish line, waiting to congratulate us once we’ve arrived. He’s right here, in the messy middle, celebrating the fact that we’ve started at all. He’s not disappointed in our slow progress. He’s delighted in our willingness to take the next step.

If you’ve been holding off on starting something because it feels too small—stop waiting. Start where you are, with what you have. Make the call. Take the walk. Write the first sentence. Offer the first prayer. Smile at the stranger. Whatever your “seed” is, plant it today and trust that it will grow in its season.

And if you’re in the middle of something hard, where small beginnings don’t feel like enough, I understand. I’m there, too. But I’m learning that those little glimmers of hope matter more than we realize. They’re not just random good moments—they’re breadcrumbs from God, leading us toward something greater.

One day, you’ll look back on the road you’ve walked and see that every small step was part of a much bigger picture. The sleepless nights, the tears, the whispered prayers, the tiny bursts of joy—all of it will make sense in the light of the finished work. You’ll see that what you thought was just barely surviving was actually the quiet, steady work of thriving in disguise.

So don’t despise the day of small beginnings. Let them be your reminder that big things grow slow, that faith is strengthened in the waiting, and that God is as present in the planting as He is in the harvest. One day, the seed you plant today will shade you tomorrow. And when that day comes, you’ll realize that the beauty of small beginnings is that they’re never really small at all—they’re the start of something extraordinary.

When The Circle Grows Smaller

As days move into weeks, and weeks into months, and now months into years, I’ve learned a hard truth I never wanted to know—that not everyone who says “I’ll never leave you behind” means it. In the early days of Tim’s PNES, there were voices everywhere—promises of prayers, words of encouragement, hands reaching out to help us stand. But as time went on, those voices grew quieter. The phone calls stopped. The visits faded. The texts that once came without fail now sit in silence. People I thought were friends, even family, have slipped away into their own lives, leaving a space where their presence used to be.

My heart is broken in ways I can’t always put into words. This journey—watching the man I love fight a battle that can strike without warning, holding my breath through each seizure, picking up the pieces after each emotional storm—has drained me in ways no one sees. And what makes it heavier is knowing that the people who once promised to stand beside us have quietly stepped aside, leaving me to carry this weight alone.

Loneliness has a way of making the days feel longer, the nights colder. There’s a special kind of ache in realizing that some people only walk with you when the road is smooth, but few are willing to stay when the ground turns rough and uneven. I wish they knew that their absence is not unnoticed—that every missed call, every unasked question of “How are you doing?” is felt in the deepest part of me.

Yet even in the emptiness, I have found something unexpected. I have learned that love is not measured by the size of your circle but by the depth of the few who remain. There are still moments of grace—those who have stayed, those who truly see us, those who show up in small but steady ways. And above all, I have learned that there is One who has never left, who has never once grown tired of my tears or turned away from my pain.

The burden is still heavy, my heart still weary, but I carry it knowing that while human hands may let go, God’s hand never does. He is here in the silence. He is here in the long nights. He is here when my knees give way under the weight of it all. And somehow, that truth becomes enough to take the next step, even when the road ahead feels unbearably long.

Held in His Hands

Father, some days it feels like the weight of the world is pressing in from every side, and my heart is barely holding together under the strain. You say everything is going to be alright, yet the shadows of my circumstances whisper that I won’t last through the night. My strength is thin, my hope trembles, and I can’t see the road ahead. My husband’s battles feel like my battles, too, and the constant watchfulness over him—wondering if the next moment might bring another seizure or another wave of darkness—leaves me feeling worn and fragile. The days blur together sometimes, the heaviness settling in like an unwelcome guest who refuses to leave.

Still, I cling to what You’ve promised. Everything will be alright, because the whole world is in Your hands—my world, too. I reach for Your word to hold me now, to steady me when the storm rages louder than my own voice. I need You to pull me through. I need a miracle, a breakthrough—because I cannot carry this weight alone. They say You hold the whole universe in Your hand, yet here I am, with my own small world crumbling like it’s made of sand, wondering if I’m small enough to slip through the cracks. Do You see me here, in the middle of my mess? Do You hear my whispered prayers in the quiet hours when the rest of the world sleeps?

Father, I hand You my broken pieces, trusting You will fit them back together in a way only You can. My life may not look the way it once did, but I believe You can shape something beautiful even from the shards. Give me the faith to believe You are on my side, even when fear tries to convince me otherwise. On the hardest days, remind me that You’ve carried me through before, and You will do it again. In the darkness and the trials, You have been faithful and true, even when I’ve questioned how the pieces could possibly fit together.

Open my eyes to see You in the small mercies—the unexpected kindness of a friend, the sound of laughter breaking through a tense moment, the warmth of sunlight streaming through the window. Teach me to notice the evidence of Your presence even when the noise of life tries to drown it out. And when the road feels too long, let the past remind me You never fail. Every tear I’ve cried, every prayer I’ve breathed in desperation, has been seen and heard by You. You are not a God who abandons; You are the One who steps into the storm and speaks peace.

So, Father, when my heart is unsteady and my soul is shaking under the weight of uncertainty, speak to me again the words that have carried me before: “It is well.” Not because the circumstances have changed yet, but because You are still here. You are still faithful. You are still God. And that is enough for me to take one more step, one more breath, one more moment trusting that You will carry me through.

Courage

There is something extraordinary in the quiet persistence of the human spirit. It’s not always loud. It doesn’t always shout its name from mountaintops or blaze trails across the sky. Sometimes, it simply rises. Quietly. Steadily. After every fall, after every heartbreak, after every storm. It rises—not because it hasn’t been broken, but because it has. And it dares to believe in healing anyway.

Maybe that’s what courage really is—not the absence of pain, but the refusal to let it define the end of the story.

There are days when life feels like it’s unraveling, like the weight is too much to bear. Maybe you’ve lived those days. Maybe you’re living one now. But even then, your heart keeps beating. Your lungs fill with breath. That’s not nothing. That’s a declaration: I’m still here.

And being here means hope isn’t gone.

You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to cry. But don’t let the darkness convince you that it owns the ending. The fire inside you, however faint it flickers, is still burning. And that light—it matters more than you think. Someone else might be navigating their own shadows, and your survival, your rise, might just be the spark they need.

So take the next step, no matter how small. Speak kindness into your own soul. Remember that healing isn’t linear and strength isn’t always visible. But both are alive inside you.

You are more than your battles. More than your mistakes. More than what tried to destroy you.

You are becoming.

You are rising.

And you are not alone.

In the Quiet, I Sing

At the end of each long, imperfect day—when the noise has quieted and the world slows to stillness—I find myself whispering a quiet prayer: Let my lifesong sing to You. I know I haven’t always gotten it right. There are moments when I’ve been weary, overwhelmed, even broken. But through every hardship, every choice, every whispered hope and every tear that fell unseen, I’ve tried to live with a heart that stays true. Not perfect, but honest. Not fearless, but faithful.

And in all the ways I’ve loved, fought, and stood back up when life knocked me down, I hope You see it. I hope You see that my life—this messy, beautiful, unfinished story—is my offering. I want to sign Your name at the end of this day, not just in words but in the way I’ve lived and loved. Because in the end, when the lights fade and time folds into eternity, the only legacy I long to leave behind is one where Your love echoed through my every breath, and my heart was always, relentlessly, Yours.

But it’s not always in the loud, obvious ways that I offer that song. No, sometimes my life sings loudest in the quiet.

In the stillness—when no one sees the battles I’m fighting, when my strength is worn thin and I carry on anyway—that’s when my soul whispers the most sincere melody. In the quiet, I sing. When I hold my husband’s hand through another seizure, or speak gently when I want to cry, or choose love when I could so easily shut down… those moments are my worship. They’re not grand or dramatic, but they are sacred.

The world may never applaud these quiet acts. But I believe Heaven leans in close for them. Because in the quiet, when no one else is watching, that’s when the truth of a heart is revealed. That’s when love becomes action, and faith becomes breath, and grace becomes enough.

So let my lifesong rise—not always in a shout, but sometimes in a whisper. Let it speak through the long drives, the long nights, the moments where I’m hanging on by nothing but grace. Let it be written in every word I say and every silence I keep. Let it be found in the ache, in the laughter, in the steady choosing of hope even when hope feels far away.

This is my offering: a heart that stayed true, a life that sang even in the silence. And when I reach the end of this day—whatever this day holds—I want to be able to say with peace: I lived it fully, I loved fiercely, and I never stopped singing.

Every Scar Tells A Story

Some scars are deep. Some, not so much. Some are still red and raw, aching when we least expect it—when a smell, a sound, or a quiet moment pulls the past right back to the surface. Others have faded to near-invisibility, tucked into places where even we forget they exist, until something reminds us. Some never hurt at all. But others… others hurt a lot.

There are the scars we see, the kind the world can trace with their eyes. And then there are the others—the quiet ones. The ones that live inside. The ones no one sees but are always there, coloring the way we think, shaping the way we love, echoing in the way we try to survive.

And isn’t that where so many of us are? Trying to survive things we never signed up for. Illnesses we never imagined. Diagnoses we had to learn to pronounce and then somehow accept. Watching someone we love—someone strong and kind and brave—go through something that seems to hollow them out from the inside, and not knowing how to stop it. Trying to carry them when we ourselves feel like we might fall apart.

I’ve stood in those places. You have, too. Holding someone’s hand during seizures you can’t control. Sitting in parking lots wondering if the version of the person you used to know will ever fully return. Lying awake at night, not because you’re not tired, but because your soul is too exhausted to sleep. These moments don’t always leave bruises that people can see, but they leave marks all the same.

Some scars come from the choices we’ve made—big ones, small ones, the kind you don’t realize were choices until later. Like the choice to stay when walking away would’ve been easier. The choice to speak hope when silence would’ve been simpler. The choice to keep believing in healing, in recovery, in something beautiful being born from something broken.

And sometimes, it’s the tiniest decisions—the ones that felt like nothing at the time—that end up changing everything. A moment of kindness. A soft word. Getting back up one more time than we’ve fallen. Choosing love. Choosing courage. Choosing to keep going.

These moments—these choices—write themselves into our lives like ink into skin. They stay. They remind us who we are. Not just the bright parts, but the weathered ones, too. The parts that have been tested and tried, shaped and reshaped by all we’ve endured.

And even if the world could look inside us, even if they could see past the practiced smiles and brave faces, they still might miss it. They’d miss the way our hearts carry the weight of unspoken things. They’d miss the nights we curled up around our pain and chose to love anyway. They’d miss the quiet strength it takes to keep showing up—to therapy appointments, to the hard conversations, to life—when everything inside is tired.

But the scars don’t lie. They speak without words.

I’ve got mine. You’ve got yours. And we’ve lived enough now to know that hiding them doesn’t serve us anymore. There is power in showing the world the places we’ve been wounded. Not to seek pity—but to say: I am still here. We’ve survived things that could’ve undone us, and instead, we let them remake us.

Time doesn’t always heal the way we expect it to. But it softens things. It teaches. It gives perspective. If time can change the way we look—gray hairs, tired eyes, deeper lines around our smiles—then maybe it can also change how we feel. Not erasing the pain, but giving us space to grow around it.

And the pain we remember? The pain that threatened to crush us, that made us scream into the night or sit in silent numbness? That pain shaped us, too. It made us stronger—not in a way that dismisses the suffering, but in a way that honors it. That kind of strength doesn’t come cheap. It comes only when you’ve walked through fire and chosen to keep your heart open.

I’ve had to look at life that way—through the lens of endurance, of hope that bends but doesn’t break. I’ve learned to rise above it, not because I’m unshaken, but because I’ve refused to be consumed by the waves. One step. One day. One breath at a time. And sometimes, that’s all you can do—breathe.

There was a time when I might have felt ashamed of what people could see—the cracks, the weariness, the scars. But not anymore. Every scar tells the story of something I faced and made it through. Every mark is a memory not of defeat, but of resilience. A reminder that I’m still writing this story.

All I know is here and now. Yesterday is gone. And somehow—we made it through. Not without cost. Not without change. But we’re still here. Still standing. Still choosing to love, to believe, to press forward even when the road looks uncertain.

Looking back, I can see now that the chances I took—the risks to trust, to love again, to hope again—they were worth it. Even the ones that didn’t turn out the way I thought they would. Because they left something behind. They left me behind—more whole, more human, more real.

It’s a strange kind of beauty, the kind that scars leave behind. Quiet, hidden, sacred. Not the kind people praise from stages, but the kind that whispers to us when we’re alone in the dark: You’re doing it. You’re living. You’re healing. You’re becoming.

So here we are. Carved by love. Etched by pain. Strengthened by survival. And we’re not finished yet.

We carry our scars not as burdens—but as proof that we dared to live. That we dared to love someone through the storm. That we walked through hell and still chose hope. That even when we were breaking, we never stopped trying to build something beautiful from the pieces.

And maybe that’s what courage really is—not the absence of fear or struggle, but the willingness to walk through it anyway. Hand in hand. Heart to heart. Scar to scar.

Because every single one of them…

Has become a part of us.

And somehow—

That makes all the difference.