Whispers From Within: A Journey Back to Myself

There wasn’t a thunderclap.

No lightning bolt or flash of fire.

Just a whisper—soft, subtle—barely enough to catch

if I wasn’t quiet.

But I heard it.

It came in moments between the noise,

in the stillness between heartbreak and healing,

in the sighs I let out when the world asked too much of me.

And though I didn’t always listen,

it never stopped speaking.

Years ago, I found a little book—The Book of Psalms,

but not the kind you find in a hotel nightstand.

This one had rituals tucked in its pages—

spiritual instructions for those seeking more.

There was one for wisdom.

I was young, curious, and hopeful.

So I followed it.

At sunrise, I went to an open field—

empty, quiet, waiting.

I performed the ritual just as it was written.

Then I went about my day,

and the next morning, I woke up…

the same.

Not wiser. Not holier.

Just me—with a little morning breath

and a whole lot of questions.

So I shelved the book.

Put the ritual on the back burner.

Life kept happening.

And I kept living.

Then one day, I watched Bruce Almighty.

Bruce looked up and asked God,

“Why don’t You just fix it?”

And God replied,

“That’s not how I work. I give you situations…

so you can develop the skills.”

Whew. That hit deep.

Wisdom doesn’t fall like confetti.

It grows like roots—through time, through pressure, through pain.

God didn’t make me wise in that field.

He made me hungry.

And then He gave me life

to chew on.

I’ve danced with doubt.

Sat at the feet of my own fears.

Watched parts of me die

so something more honest could be born.

This path isn’t always gentle.

But it is sacred.

Sometimes it’s prayer with no words,

other times it’s tears falling into soil.

It’s the birds that show up right when I need comfort,

or the way the sun peeks through the blinds

when I think all is lost.

I’ve learned the Divine doesn’t always show up in robes.

Sometimes it’s a worn-out mother finally resting.

Sometimes it’s your own reflection

after surviving the storm.

Sometimes it’s you—yes, you—

being the answered prayer.

I’m still walking.

Still becoming.

Still peeling back layers

and finding gold

where I once only saw pain.

This is my altar—

these words, this moment.

And I offer it to you,

in case your soul, too, has been whispering.

Don’t ignore the whisper.

It just might be the beginning

of your journey home.

—YaYa