The evening unfolded with serene beauty, the breeze brushing the courtyard like a gentle grace. Students laughed in clusters, leaning toward one another as they shared secrets of survival. Their voices rose and fell with hope, and despite the seriousness of their goal—to save the semester—their charm and determination radiated light.
I paced my room, tracing restless circles, feeling as if I were on another planet entirely. My fingers drummed against the edge of the table, my mind twisting through corridors I had long avoided. Each corner held shadows I could no longer ignore. I picked up my notebook, tore a page, crumpled it, and let it fall to the floor. The rustle echoed the unease stirring inside me.
For the first time, I admitted silently that the comfort I clung to was nothing more than familiar stagnation. I clenched my fists, drew a deep breath, and felt the urgency of change surge through me. I wanted to become the woman I imagined—strong yet gentle, thoughtful, graceful.
I traced the rim of my coffee cup, letting its warmth seep into my hands. I straightened my back, lifted my chin, and practiced the posture of a respectful wife, a generous friend, a heart both firm and tender. My fingers lingered on the worn pages of my journal, circling words I had not dared speak, folding them neatly as if shaping the life I longed for.
I knelt by my bedside, hands pressed together, feeling devotion stir within me. I wrote lists, tore them, and rewrote them, each scrap marking a promise to change. In front of the mirror, I practiced patience, kindness, and courage, letting my reflection catch the subtle shifts in my posture, gaze, and breath.
As the quiet morning stretched before me, I took inventory of my days. Too much had been wasted: endless scrolling, empty messages, books that filled my hours but not my soul. All of it had to go. I craved a new beginning—a journey walked hand in hand with God, my family, my friends, and anyone He placed along my path.
Yet I knew this transformation required strength stronger than mine. I had never truly sat with myself to think, to listen, or to reflect with honesty. Still, something brave and trembling inside whispered that this was the moment to leap—to seek purpose, to see myself as those who love me already do, to grasp the value I had long overlooked.
I pressed my hands together, lifting my face to the fading light. The evening breeze brushed my cheeks, each gust carrying a whisper of calm. My eyes traced the lines of my Bible, fingers resting on Matthew 6, feeling its words thrum beneath my touch. I exhaled slowly, letting each breath pull tension from my chest, imagining God seeing every step I would take, knowing every need I carried.
I rose and walked to the window, letting the last rays of sun spill across the floor. I jotted names in my journal—those God had placed along my path—then crumpled the page and smoothed it again, a small gesture of both chaos and care. Kneeling lightly on the rug, I bowed my head, letting the quiet wrap around me like a blanket.
I leaned back, letting the breeze stir my hair, and whispered into the growing night, my lips barely moving:
"Goodnight, Holy Spirit."
The words floated into the dark, carrying both gratitude and trust, settling softly into the corners of my heart.