Not broken…

Maybe I am not broken for feeling the weight of the world press so heavy against my chest.

Maybe these tears are not weakness, but proof that I am still alive in a time when so many hearts have gone silent.

Maybe the ache that stretches wide inside me is not evidence of failure, but of capacity—

capacity to hold what others have set down,

capacity to see what others have learned to ignore, capacity to care when apathy has become the easy language of our age.

Perhaps I was never meant to harden.

Perhaps I was never meant to grow calloused and cold just to survive.

Maybe my design was always meant to bleed compassion, to let mercy pulse hot through my veins, to let the sting of sorrow keep me awake,

to let the burden of love bend my knees before a God who sees every shattered piece.

This world says, “numb yourself, protect yourself, close the gates of your heart before it all drowns you.”

But heaven whispers, “Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.”

Not cursed—blessed.

Not broken—chosen.

Not weak—set apart.

So maybe I am not broken for feeling everything so hard. Maybe I am built for the groaning of creation, for intercession in a weary land,

for love that refuses to quiet when pain fills the room. Maybe I am fashioned for such a time as this: to weep where others laugh,

to stay tender where others grow numb,

to keep my heart burning when the world settles for ashes.

And maybe, just maybe,

that is not a curse at all—

but the very evidence of Christ alive in me.