It Whispers.

It wasn’t in the thunderclap, or the long-awaited answers to questions you scribbled in margins
when you were fifteen… aching to be someone.

No burning bush. No lightning bolt. No map drawn in the stars. It came in slower ways. Softer.

In the steam rising from a chipped coffee mug you’ve kept longer than most friendships,
your name fading on the bottom. But still, it holds heat.

In the dog’s sleepy blinks at your feet in the morning, just happy that you’re still here. Still his.

In the hum you carry while folding laundry, a song no one taught you, but somehow you always knew.

You found purpose in wiping down counters,  replacing the lightbulb, paying bills… late… but still paying them.
In remembering to buy your brother’s favorite cereal because 

he had a bad week. In the quiet choreography of choosing to stay, again and again, even when the days
blur together like wet watercolor.

And, you’ve cried into dishwater. You’ve sat on bathroom floors counting your breaths like rosary beads.
But somehow, you got up. You went to work. You answered the phone. You texted back, even when you didn’t want to.

And maybe that’s where the sacred lives… not in grand gestures,
but in the small rituals that keep you tethered.

A well-worn hoodie. A voicemail from your dad. The smell of clean sheets
after a hard day. Love in lowercase. Hope, in the shape of leftovers reheated.
Joy in the click of the kettle. Forgiveness in a long drive with nowhere to be.

You thought purpose  had to be loud, maybe it had to be spectacular.
But now you see, it whispers. 

It steadies. It becomes part of you.

Like breath, like memory, like muscle.
It builds itself into your bones
like muscle memory. You are here.
Still becoming. Still, making a life out of the smallest things.
And maybe that was the point all along.