The Return #poetry

We return to our lives changed,
carrying the maps we drew
in the territory of uncertainty.
The same commute becomes different
when we choose it consciously.
The same work transforms
when we understand why we do it.
The same relationships deepen
when we show up as ourselves
instead of as who we think
we should be.

The autopilot is still there—
we haven't transcended
our human need for routine,
for the comfort of familiar patterns.
But now we know how to wake up
when the moment calls for awakening,
how to pause when pause is needed,
how to stand at crossroads
with curiosity instead of terror.

This is the lived reality
of a life examined:
not the absence of confusion
but the presence of choice,
not the elimination of questions
but the willingness to ask them,
not the end of crossroads
but the wisdom to see them
as invitations rather than obstacles.

Life makes perfect sense to me
because I've learned to trust
the perfect senselessness
of the human journey,
the beautiful mess
of becoming who we are,
one conscious breath,
one chosen step,
one brave pause at a time.

You stand again—half-lit by dawnlight, shadows clinging to your shoulders,
yet every breath arrives like a question you never dared ask out loud.

You, who have gathered your scars into a quiet constellation,
who cradle your old heartbreaks gently so they do not shatter,
sometimes feel the ache of empty rooms echo louder than the world itself.
You press your palm to your chest, sensing the silent orchestra of longing
humming in your veins, as if your body remembers something
your mind is still learning to forgive.

There are mornings when you taste yesterday’s sorrow on your tongue,
heavy, metallic—proof that you have survived your own undoing.
You stand at thresholds, at the silent seam between despair and possibility,
pausing because forward feels so much like falling, and falling
reminds you too much of flying.

Maybe you are tired—down to the bone—
tired of building from ruins, tired of offering your open hands,
tired of loving in a language you are still learning to trust.
And yet.
You rise nonetheless, stitching your hope into the new seams of each day,
the smallest act of courage—a cup of tea, a spoken kindness, a glance skyward—
becomes the thread binding you to the miracle of your own persistence.

You, who have learned to shape your loneliness into lanterns,
lighting corners of your mind you once left dark,
have become an architect of resilience.
On the days your heart feels too crowded with silence,
may you remember that every tear you’ve wept has watered
a softer, greener future just beneath your skin.

You are not alone in your solitude.
The universe aches with you, sings lullabies for your grief,
and, in the hush before sleep claims you,
wraps its arms around your trembling spirit, reminding you
that to feel deeply is not a flaw, but a testament—that you are alive.

Tonight, when you fold yourself into bed, uncertain and unraveling,
may you sense the quiet blessing in your breath,
the infinite patience it takes to keep loving the world anyway.
Know this: every crack in your heart is a doorway,
and through it, light will find you—
soft, persistent, and true.