There’s a moment just before dawn, when the world holds its breath. The stars begin to dim, the sky washes itself in a palette of pastels—lavender, gold, the soft blush of hope—and a stillness settles over everything. It’s as if the earth is waiting, cradled in a sacred hush, for the light to spill in and say, “Try again.” That space, that in-between, is where many of us live—between what has happened and what comes next. It is the quiet place where we reflect, and most importantly, choose how we will see the story we’re living.

When my father passed away, a shift occurred inside me—not a loud one, but one that settled in like a whisper in my bones. I realized that life isn’t just a collection of events—it’s a sacred sculpting. Every joy, every loss, every unexpected turn is the chisel, the pressure, the polishing that shapes who we are becoming. And the way we perceive those moments—that is what determines whether we break… or bloom.

You see, perception is the lens through which we interpret our reality. It colors our memories, fuels our fears, and lights the way forward. Where one might see devastation, another sees divine redirection. Where one might drown in sorrow, another drinks deep from the well of wisdom. It’s not that pain doesn’t come—it does. But what we do with it… that’s our alchemy.

I often think of the story of tennis legend Arthur Ashe, a man known not only for his talent, but his quiet strength. After contracting HIV from a blood transfusion, he was asked in an interview, “Do you ever sit and ask, ‘Why me?’” His answer? “No. When things were going well, I never asked, ‘Why me?’ So why should I ask now?” That, dear soul, is perception with grace. That is the unwavering light of someone who understood that blessings and trials are part of the same mosaic—each piece necessary, each one with purpose.

We are all sculpted by our trials. But here’s the beautiful truth: we are not meant to stay in the valley. We are meant to rise, to evolve, to shed the old skin and step into the next chapter with wisdom in our eyes and resilience in our hearts. You are not the pain you endured. You are the soul who walked through it with trembling hands and a heart that kept beating anyway. That strength? That’s your radiance.

So today, let us ask not “Why is this happening to me?” but “What is this teaching me?” Let us look at our lives not through the lens of lack, but of love. Let us shift our gaze and allow light to spill into the dark corners of our story. Because sometimes, the only thing standing between despair and peace is the way we choose to see.

With love and light,
Always Radiant, Always Becoming