The Hidden Journal

I used to look for meaning in miracles —
something bright enough to make me believe again.
But the older I get,
the more I find it in smaller things.

───

The sound of the kettle in the morning.
The warmth of sunlight on a clean floor.
The way my name sounds when spoken softly.
Little pieces of mercy
that don’t announce themselves,
but arrive anyway.

───

This is the ordinary holy —
the quiet proof that life still wants me here.
Not as a performance,
but as a presence.

───

There’s no ceremony to it.
No spotlight, no applause.
Just a slow return to myself,
again and again,
until the act of living
feels like prayer.

───

— Desiree