HOPE THAT FLICKERS

 

May arrived quietly.

Not with celebration, not with certainty

but with heavy eyes, tired prayers,

and the kind of silence that sits beside you

even in crowded rooms.

I think some months come to test the weight of our hearts.

And May did exactly that.

It stretched me in places I never spoke about.

It showed me how exhausting it is

to keep holding onto people, memories, dreams,

and versions of life

that no longer hold onto us.

Some days felt unbearably long.

Like standing at a closed door,

knocking softly,

hoping destiny would suddenly remember my name.

I carried disappointment so gently

that nobody noticed how much it was bruising me.

I smiled through conversations

while quietly grieving things

I could not explain without trembling.

But somewhere between the breaking and surviving,

I began to understand something important:

Not everything delayed is meant for destruction.

Not everything lost is asking to be chased.

And not every season of stillness

means life has forgotten us.

Some things end because they have already taught us enough.

So, as May folds itself into memory,

I am choosing release.

I release the habit of begging life to move faster

while ignoring the lessons hidden in slowness.

I release the fear of change.

The fear of starting over.

The fear of becoming unfamiliar to people

who only loved the smaller version of me.

I release the pain of unanswered prayers

without releasing my faith completely.

And maybe healing is not dramatic after all.

Maybe it is simply waking up one morning

and deciding that your softness deserves protection too.

Maybe growth is learning

that stagnancy is not always a place 

sometimes it is attachment.

Attachment to what hurt us.

To what left us waiting.

To what stopped watering our souls

yet expected us to keep blooming.

May, you were heavy.

But you were honest.

You taught me that survival is not weakness.

That resting is not failure.

That letting go is sometimes the first prayer

God answers quietly.

And as the month comes to an end,

I do not leave with bitterness.

I leave with open hands.

With hope that still flickers,

even after strong winds.

With a heart still learning

how to forgive life for not becoming

what I expected.

With courage to believe

that change does not always arrive loudly.

Sometimes it enters softly 

like dawn replacing darkness

without asking permission.

So here is to the endings.

To the closed chapters.

To the tears nobody saw.

To the versions of ourselves

we had to bury in silence.

And here is to June.

To movement.

To peace.

To becoming.

I am no longer begging stagnant waters to carry me.

I am finally learning

how to walk away

and let the river flow without me.