I sat at the altar of my own damn life,
waiting for God to text me back.
Refreshed my spirit like an inbox.
Nothing.
Checked my chakras.
Still buffering.
Everyone else was out here manifesting Teslas,
Birkin bags, new lovers with cheekbones so sharp
they could slice through generational trauma.
And me?
I was on hold,
Listening to the elevator music of my own patience.
“Your breakthrough is important to us,”
the universe said.
“Please stay on the line.”
So I made tea.
Tended to my inner garden.
Argued with my shadow self (again).
Folded some trauma neatly into thirds.
Lit incense.
Burnt toast.
Didn’t die.
I wanted fireworks.
Got a whisper.
Wanted the neon sign.
Got a nap and a gentle breeze.
Wanted “NOW!”
Got, “…honey, go sit down.”
And eventually—after I gave up the chase,
after I learned to belly laugh at divine delays,
after I stopped stalking my blessings on Instagram—
something clicked.
Turns out, the wait wasn’t punishment.
It was a seasoning.
And I was the stew.
Simmering into a flavor this world has never tasted.
Fully marinated.
Fully me.
So if you’re waiting—
breathe, baby.
Don’t rush the cake.
Don’t beg the butterfly.
Don’t text your ex.
Trust the sacred slow roast of your own becoming.
Because you are not late.
You are perfectly weird,
brilliantly divine,
fashionably on-time…
And maybe, just maybe—
you are the blessing
the universe was waiting on, too—
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Healing Majestically 