Some parts of my story
don’t fit into sentences.

There are moments I carry
that have no language —
just a quiet ache
I’ve learned how to live beside.

I’ve tried to name them before.
Tried to trace the edges,
make them make sense,
offer them in neat, careful paragraphs.

But some grief is shapeless.
Some memories blurry,
not because they weren’t real,
but because they were too much to hold with open eyes.

Still, they live in me.
In how I flinch at certain words.
In how I love more tenderly now.
In how I pause before trusting again.

I used to think everything had to be told
to be healed.
That I had to find the words
or I’d never be free.

But I’m learning —
even the things I can’t explain
are seen by the One who made me.

Even the wounds without language
are held by a God who doesn’t need a translation
to understand.

So if you’re carrying things too heavy for words —
you’re not alone.
You don’t have to explain them to be worthy of healing.
You don’t have to speak them out loud to be seen.

He already knows.

And still, He stays.

---

“The Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.”
— Romans 8:26 (NIV)