“Quiet Enough (But Not Whole)”
The quiet isn’t empty anymore.
It’s soft, like the space between heartbeats,
like the weight of a blanket that doesn’t ask anything of me.
Peace comes slow —
not in fireworks,
not in someone else’s promises —
but in the rhythm of my own breath,
the easy rise and fall
that was always enough,
even when I forgot it.
Sleep feels less like escape
and more like surrender.
Not giving up —
just letting go,
trusting the world to hold itself up for once.
I’m learning to be grateful
for stillness,
for mornings without chaos,
for the simple proof that I can carry myself
without needing anyone to steady the load.
And yet —
in the middle of the calm,
there’s a shape that isn’t filled,
a presence the silence won’t name.
The wrestle isn’t gone,
but it’s quieter now.
And in that quiet,
I’ve found me —
even if part of me is still reaching
for what never came home.