There’s a space between the moments.
Not quite here, not quite gone.
A place where my breath catches,
and time seems to hold its breath too.

In that space, I carry both fear and hope.
A quiet tug-of-war between wanting to let go
and desperately needing to keep holding on.

I’ve learned to meet myself there,
not with judgment,
but with patience.
Like a friend who knows my silences
and never hurries me to speak.

Because healing never arrives all at once.
It’s small steps.
Soft words I whisper to my soul,
and the permission to rest
when the world asks for more than I can give.

Some days, surviving means only existing.
Not fixing, not striving.
Just being here enough to take one more breath.

And in that breathing,
I start to remember the version of me
that lives beneath the weight.
A spark still flickers there,
quiet but certain,
Growing

So I stay in that space between the moments.
Holding both my brokenness and my strength.
Learning that even in the waiting,
peace can make a home in me.