I lay myself down at the altar of becoming—
not polished, not perfect,
but present
Grace is the breath between my trembling and my triumph,
the hush that says, “You may rest here.”
It does not demand apology,
nor parade
—it simply is
In the cradle of my healing, grace is the lullaby
Not a fix, but a faithful witness
to my stumbles,
to my scars,
to the sacred disarray that shapes me
Who told us we had to earn our wholeness?
That only perfection could wear the crown of worth?
Grace scoffs at that lie,
whispers instead:
You are worthy because you are
Some days, I am all bloom and thunder
Other days, I am undone lace,
barely held by the breath of belief—
and still, Grace stays
Unmoving-
Unashamed-
She is not the reward for getting it right
She is the balm when I don’t
She is the mirror that forgives,
the ocean that welcomes me home
even when I’ve forgotten how to swim
Perfection is a myth
stitched by hands afraid of their own softness
But grace—
grace is the truth we return to
when we allow ourselves to unfold
So today, I pour honey over my wounds,
kiss the cracked porcelain of my soul,
and say, this too is holy
Not despite,
but because of.
Let grace be the love letter I never learned to write myself
Let it be the yes
when I can only whisper no.
Let it be the prayer
when I no longer remember the words
This is not a poem of victory—
this is a poem of permission
To be
To break
To begin again
And again.
And again.
Wrapped in the divine embrace
of a grace that asks nothing,
and gives
everything—-
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