To the Girl Who Believed

Are you still there?

Yes.

Just older now. Quieter.

But I still remember how you prayed

with eyes closed tight

and hands that shook with hope.

You used to believe so fiercely.

I did.

Because they told me love had rules,

and heaven watched,

and goodness would be rewarded

if I stayed small enough to fit.

And now? What changed?

Life.

Grief.

Truth that didn’t need hymns to feel holy.

I watched my father—gentle, steady—

fade away

while no divine mercy came.

Did it hurt, letting go?

Yes.

It felt like breaking up with someone

I loved but no longer trusted.

It felt like standing alone

without the safety net of certainty.

Do you miss it?

Sometimes.

The ritual. The rhythm.

But not the fear.

Not the way I was made to feel

like I was never quite enough.

So what do you believe now?

That kindness matters.

That wonder exists without needing

a creator behind it.

That meaning is something

we build with our own hands.

And are you at peace?

I’m learning to be.

Not the kind they promised—

not eternal rest or streets of gold—

but a quiet, grounded truth

that this life is enough.

That I am enough.

Even without believing?

Especially without believing.