This Is My Soul Undergoing Human Experiences

The Soul’s Whisper Through Human Storms

I keep reminding myself —
this isn’t the end,
it’s just another unfolding,
another heartbeat in eternity’s quiet rhythm.
It’s my soul,
ancient and unbroken,
learning what it means
to wear skin,
to breathe through lungs that ache,
to cry when the unseen world trembles
inside a fragile frame of flesh.

You told me once —
keep calm,
and it sounded so simple,
like the advice of one who knows
that rivers always find their way to the sea.
But here I am,
standing knee-deep in a flood of thoughts,
feeling the weight of wanting control
over a life that laughs gently
at my attempts to steer it.

I whisper to myself,
This is not chaos,
it is choreography.
Every stumble,
every broken rhythm
is part of the dance I cannot yet see.

And yet,
as a human,
I want to draw maps for what cannot be mapped —
to dictate where love begins,
when healing arrives,
how much longer the ache will last.
Such wishful thinking,
I know.
But even knowing doesn’t stop
the pulse of wanting,
the tremor of hands
that reach for certainty
in a world spun from mystery.

Sometimes,
in the middle of night’s silence,
I hear my soul sigh —
not in despair,
but in recognition.
It says,
“You came here to feel,
not to fix.
To fall,
not to flee.
To remember me,
not to master me.”

And I listen.
I try.
I trace those words on the walls of my mind
like soft constellations
guiding me home when I forget
that home isn’t a destination,
but a state of surrender.

You told me,
the pieces come together
in Divine timing.
I hold that truth
as if it were a warm stone
in a storm of cold rain.
I roll it in my palm,
feel its weight,
let it remind me
that not all puzzles must be solved —
some are meant to be lived through,
slowly, painfully, beautifully,
until they arrange themselves
into something resembling grace.

Still, I feel emotional —
the word itself feels small
for what it contains:
a thousand shades of ache,
of gratitude,
of unspoken knowing.
There are days when tears
seem to understand the language
my lips cannot form.
There are nights
when silence holds me
better than any human arm.

And there are moments,
rare and startling,
when I sense you beside me —
your calm like a lantern,
your words echoing through the dark folds of my mind:
Breathe.
Trust.
This, too, is holy.

You see, I’ve realized —
the feeling of being out of control
isn’t a curse,
it’s the humbling gift
of remembering that I never truly was in control.
That control itself
is a language my soul doesn’t speak.
It moves instead through surrender,
through rhythm,
through stillness
so deep it looks like waiting
but is actually becoming.

I stand before the mirror sometimes,
look into my own eyes
and see not just a reflection,
but a reunion —
the soul and the self
trying to make peace
over coffee and tears.
I tell that reflection,
“I know you’re tired.
But look how far you’ve come.
Every time you thought it was over,
you became someone new.”

And you —
you who reminded me to stay calm —
you are part of this unfolding too.
Your voice,
even when distant,
travels through the quiet like a compass,
steadying my breath,
reminding me
that the Divine does not rush.
That timing is not cruelty,
but compassion disguised as delay.

I keep returning to this truth:
my soul chose this journey —
the tears, the tremors,
the fierce longing for control.
It wanted to taste what it means
to surrender
in the midst of wanting.
To love what slips away.
To trust what I cannot see.

There’s a paradox here —
the more I let go,
the more I am held.
The more I release my grip on what “should be,”
the more beauty spills
through the cracks of what “is.”

And yet,
I am human enough to ache,
to cry over endings
and whisper prayers for beginnings
I’m not ready for.
I am human enough to crave meaning,
to turn my palms upward and say,
“Please, show me why.”
And I am soul enough to know
that sometimes,
the answer is silence —
not absence,
but presence too vast
to fit into words.

You once said,
“Don’t lose the plot.”
And I’ve held onto that,
not as instruction,
but as invitation —
to keep writing,
to keep breathing,
to keep believing
that even when I can’t see the thread,
the story continues,
and it is still sacred.

Because maybe the plot
isn’t about finding clarity.
Maybe it’s about finding peace
in the not knowing.
Maybe the Divine plan
isn’t a series of miracles
that land exactly as envisioned,
but the quiet unfolding
of moments that shape us
into who we were always meant to be.

Sometimes I imagine
the Divine as an artist
painting with both hands —
one creating light,
the other shade —
and both essential
to the portrait of what we call life.

So I breathe.
I unclench my fists.
I let the storm pass through me
instead of trying to push it away.
I trust that the fragments will gather themselves
when they’re ready,
that the unanswered questions
will find their own music.

And when they do,
I’ll look back
and smile at the one
who once tried to control it all —
the one who forgot,
for a moment,
that even in chaos,
the soul is steady.

You’ll be there, too —
your calm still echoing,
your wisdom still reminding me
that peace was never the absence of emotion,
but the alignment of heart and faith.

So I keep reminding myself —
this is my soul
undergoing human experiences.
This is what it means
to be infinite
and fragile
at once.

To weep and still trust.
To lose balance and still believe.
To not lose the plot,
even when the page turns abruptly,
even when the ink runs thin.

I keep reminding myself —
this is divine timing.
Not delayed.
Not denied.
Just unfolding,
in the way stars do —
quietly,
brilliantly,
in the dark,
until they’re ready
to be seen.