The wordless places

I don’t say most of it out loud.

Not because it isn’t real, but because it feels too fragile to survive the air.

The words live behind my ribs,

pressed into the quiet places where tears gather before they fall.

Thoughts without language.

Aches without shape.

Prayers that never make it past a sigh.

And still—He sees them.

Every sentence I don’t finish.

Every question I swallow.

Every grief I tidy up so no one else feels uncomfortable.

Nothing is missed. Not one tremor of my heart.

Not one breath that shakes on the way out.

The God who spun galaxies

is close enough to notice the way my chest tightens, when memory rushes in uninvited.

That He reads what I can’t write.

That He understands what I don’t even understand yet.

In the breaking…the slow, humiliating unraveling… maybe there is a blessing.

Not the kind that erases the pain,

but the kind that sees it in microscopic detail.

The kind that doesn’t rush me past the wound

or demand faith as a performance.

A blessing of being known this thoroughly.

So fully.

So tenderly.

That even when I offer nothing but silence,

even when my prayers collapse into exhausted breaths, not even a sigh escapes Him.

I don’t have to explain myself to be understood.

I don’t have to be strong to be held.

I don’t have to speak to be seen.

He meets me in the wordless places,

where grief has no grammar

and hope feels like a whisper I’m afraid to trust.

And somehow, in being seen like this—

so exposed, so honest, so broken—

I feel a quiet healing begin.

Not because the ache is gone,

but because it is not invisible.

I am not invisible.

Even here.