The Hidden Journal

There’s a voice that doesn’t speak in words.
It hums beneath thought,
gentle but certain,
like the sound of a tide turning.

───

For years, I drowned it out —
with noise,
with busyness,
with other people’s versions of me.
I called it quiet when really
I was afraid of what it might say.

───

But it waited.
It always does.
It’s patient like that —
the part of me that knows before I do.

───

Now, when I write,
I try not to force meaning.
I just listen.
I let that voice move my hands,
soft and steady,
like I’m being guided back home.

───

It doesn’t speak of perfection or performance.
It only asks,
“What is true for you right now?”

And when I answer honestly,
I hear it smile.

— Desiree