It didn’t happen all at once. There was no trumpet, no neon sign, no momentous shift in the wind. The change came softly—like light filtering through the blinds at dawn, like the way a seed stirs beneath the soil long before anything green breaks the surface.

At first, it was just a breath. A gentle stirring. A flicker of something inside me that hadn’t danced in a long time. Not quite joy, not quite clarity—just… life. Life returning.

I couldn’t name it then. But I could feel it.

I was walking differently, not in stride or pace, but in presence. My feet touched the ground with a new kind of reverence, as though I finally realized the earth was holding me. Each step, a prayer. Each inhale, a hymn of thanks.

It began in the quiet. In the sacred moments of stillness, I carved out for myself in the early hours of the day—before the world made demands, before the noise crept in. There, with a hand wrapped around my coffee mug and my heart open to the heavens, I began to say thank you out loud. Not for the big things, but for the small ones. The morning light on the countertop. The breath that found its way to my lungs. The warmth of a memory that arrived uninvited but welcomed.

Gratitude. It began to till the soil of my soul.

And then came the people. The ones who saw me—not for what I did, but for who I was. The ones who spoke life into me when I had none to spare. The ones who reminded me, gently and without demand, that I was loved. Worthy. Enough. They didn’t just sit with me in my darkness—they brought candles.

In the safety of that light, I found my way back to myself.

I started spending more time with the ones I love—laughing, resting, simply being together. I saw how the roots of connection anchor us when life tries to sweep us away. I saw how even the messiest moments could become sacred if love is present.

And in the space between those moments, I gave myself back to me. I stopped running. I stopped hiding. I sat with my own company and found I wasn’t a stranger after all. I was a garden waiting to be tended. A bud curled tightly, not because it didn’t want to bloom, but because it was waiting for the right season.

Now, something is stirring within. Something sacred. Something slow and unstoppable.

I don’t have the words for it yet—not all of them. But I feel like a bloom, warm in the sun’s embrace, stretching open petal by petal. I feel like the pearl resting in the clam’s mouth—protected, hidden for a time, but slowly polished into something precious by the rhythm of the sea.

There is an awakening happening. Not the kind that shouts. The kind that whispers: You are becoming.

And I am.

I’m becoming through morning gratitude and quiet prayer. Through belly laughs at the kitchen table and long phone calls with loved ones. Through music that stirs my soul and silence that holds my truth. Through boundaries that protect my peace and people who remind me who I am. Through love that doesn’t ask me to shrink and hope that tells me to rise.

I’m rooted. And I’m rising.

This is the season of unfolding. And though I may not know all that’s ahead, I trust the process. I trust the sun to rise. I trust the soil to nourish. I trust the love I’ve poured into myself to bloom into something beautiful.

And when the blossom finally opens, I will know, it was never about rushing toward the light. It was about becoming the light.

So, wherever you are on your journey, hold tight to hope. Cherish that tiny seed of excitement that lives in your chest. Nourish it. Speak gently to it. Surround it with love. It is your soul, stretching toward the sky.

You are not behind. You are blooming.

With love and light.