When Peace Finds the One Who Was Chosen to Break It
I didn’t always live like this.
With music playing and no tears left to wipe away.
With mornings that rise soft instead of sharp.
With nothing clawing at my chest except gratitude.
There was a time when I carried everything:
Deadlines. Disappointment.
Bills. Body image.
Tone of voice. Timing.
Always bracing. Always proving.
But peace came anyway.
Uninvited, yet right on time.
And now I know—
You don’t have to fight for peace when you’re finally aligned with it.
The waves still try.
But the water doesn’t get in anymore.
And the boat?
She’s surrounded.
Not by threat—but by protection disguised as teeth.
Sharks, circling like sentries.
No one’s drilling holes here again.
And as Thank You plays in the background,
I feel it—deep and full.
That holy kind of ache.
Because if I had surrendered earlier,
I may have missed the assignment.
It had to be me.
Born into the chaos.
Raised in the ache.
Chosen to break what everyone else learned to ignore.
I stayed quiet.
Not just to stay safe—
but because I come from a lineage where silence was survival.
Where faith was used more like a fence than a refuge.
Where religion handed out shame wrapped in scripture,
and called it love.
But I know better now.
Because I met peace before I met performance.
And what healed me wasn’t loud.
It was quiet.
Still.
Steady.
Like a whisper that refused to compete with noise.
So, I’m not afraid to speak anymore.
Because I don’t speak from fear.
I speak from freedom.
And when freedom speaks, it doesn’t need to explain itself.
What’s sealed in peace
can’t be hijacked in performance.
I’m not just protected.
I’m preserved.
And now?
Every day feels like an exhale.
Not because the chaos stopped—
but because I stopped letting it live in me.