Change did not arrive with thunder or spectacle. It came slowly, like the first light of dawn spilling across a sleepy horizon, warming the world before anyone noticed.
I stood by the window of the common room, watching a bird build its nest, meticulously placing each twig. Its persistence struck me. I realized the bitterness I carried—toward Eve, toward the people who had wronged me—was like carrying wet sand in my chest. Holding onto it only weighed me down. I bent to pick up my journal and wrote a single word across the page: Let go. Then, I tore the page, letting it flutter into the trash like the old resentment I refused to carry any longer.
I noticed small moments around me: a frustrated classmate snapping, a professor's gentle reply deflating the tension. I smiled quietly, feeling warmth spread through my chest. I began offering the same kindness in my own actions—a word of encouragement to a weary dorm mate, a listening ear for someone struggling, even sharing the last packet of biscuits I had. Each act felt like cool water on a dry desert, and I felt my spirit breathe again.
Later, I knelt by my bed, Bible open, fingers tracing Psalm 23. I whispered each verse slowly, feeling the words sink into me. My hands rested on the pages as if drawing strength from the ink itself. I repeated my small prayers, sometimes in quiet desperation, sometimes in gratitude, letting God's presence fill the spaces anger and fear had left.
Faith, I realized, was not about dramatic awakenings. It was in showing up each day—choosing patience when irritation bubbled, practicing generosity when it was easier to turn inward, standing tall even when I felt small. I began tracking tiny victories: presenting a project I had dreaded, completing a study plan, finishing a devotional daily. Each small success whispered: slow and steady wins the race.
By evening, I found myself on the balcony, the breeze brushing against my face. I let out a long sigh, feeling the tightness in my chest release. I watched the sunset, letting the light touch my hands, my hair, my heart. My cup, once half empty, now ran over with joy. I laughed quietly at the thought of the girl I had been, and silently thanked God for guiding me here.
And yet, even as I savored this gentle triumph, a thought lingered—a shadow at the edge of my happiness. The world would continue testing me. Would I remain steadfast when darkness returned?