I needed to write this because I know how many of us carry questions we never say out loud. The ones that wake us in the middle of the night. The ones that feel too ungrateful to ask.
We were taught that doubt means we’ve failed. That confusion is weakness. That silence must be our fault, that we’re not listening hard enough or not good enough to hear clearly.
But what if that isn’t true?
What if asking questions doesn’t make us ungrateful? What if wrestling with belief doesn’t mean we’ve lost it? What if the ache to understand isn’t a flaw in our belief, but a sign of just how much it matters to us?
Belief isn’t certainty. Maybe it’s choosing to stay in the conversation even when we’re not sure who’s listening or if the answer will ever come.
At 2 a.m. I wrote this. I wasn’t trying to be poetic. I just needed to get it out.
What do You want from me?
Because I’ve tried.
With everything I had.
I let go of what I never thought I could.
I followed the path I thought was mine.
I did the hard things.
The right things.
At least, I thought they were.
Did I get it wrong?
I’m still here. Still aching. Still talking to You in the dark, whispering prayers that sound more like confessions.
I wish You spoke in words instead of feelings. Because feelings are too much sometimes. They come with doubt. With overthinking. With nights like this.
I just want to understand what all of this was for. What it’s trying to become.
What You wanted me to learn in a stretch I never asked for.
I’m not looking for signs in the sky.
Just something clear.
Something kind.
A moment where I don’t feel like I’m failing at something I was never really taught how to do.
And all I can do is ask again.
Did I get it wrong?
Am I chasing something I imagined, while You were trying to show me something else entirely?
I want to believe You’re still here with me.
Not just in the bright moments,
but even tonight.
Especially tonight.
While I’m still listening,
in the dark.
That was 2 a.m. me. Though maybe someone else needs these words too.
There have been so many times I thought I understood where I was being led. I took the next step with hope, believing I was walking toward something clear. But instead, I found myself in places I never expected. And in those places, everything I thought I knew about myself began to unravel, and I had to rebuild from the inside out.
I had to say goodbye to versions of myself I still loved. To dreams I was sure would carry me forever. To people I wanted to keep, even when they weren’t meant to stay. To the certainty I once depended on just to make sense of it all.
So maybe the point was never the destination. Maybe the point was the becoming. The staying. The living through it.
It was about learning how to hold the ache without turning away. To carry something sacred within me, even when I don’t yet have the words to name it.
But there is still a part of me, strong, stubborn, and human, that wants to climb the tallest hill and shout. Not because I have lost belief, but because I have carried so much in silence. The frustration. The anger. The ache of always doing the right thing. Of standing in rooms where no one noticed what it cost me to stay kind. Of showing up again and again without answers. Of being stretched so far, I began to wonder what would be left of me.
I know some things don’t make sense while they’re happening. Some stories don’t have beautiful endings, like a Hollywood film with a 300 million dollar budget. But what will matter to me is that I didn’t shut down. That I taught myself to feel, even when it hurt. And maybe one day, I’ll be worth 300 million too. Not because I got every line right, but because I lived through every scene fully. Even the ones no one stayed to watch.
I think the sacred thing we carry is simply ourselves. The version of us that kept walking, even when the path disappeared beneath our feet. The one who didn’t give up.
The one who stayed soft in a world that tried to harden them.
I want to be the kind of person who holds space for all three layers of our heart. The inner that feels it all. The middle that keeps going. And the outer shell that protects us when the world forgets we’re human.
I want to believe that reaching, even when unsure, still counts as belief. That asking still matters. That showing up, quietly and imperfectly, still moves something forward.
So today, if you find yourself in the place I once stood, standing alone inside your own questions, wondering if you took a wrong turn or misheard the voice that once felt so clear. You are not lost. You are simply standing in one corner of the labyrinth, unable to see how many of us are standing beside you.
The doubt does not erase your progress.
The ache does not cancel your strength.
The silence does not mean you have been forgotten.
It is not abandonment.
You are still held.
And if your voice feels too quiet today,
If the weight is too much to carry alone,
I’ll climb the hill for you.
I’ll shout the words you don’t have the strength to say.
I’ll call into the wind that you’re still here,
still trying,
and you matter to someone.
And for today, let that knowing hold you.
Wholeheartedly,
Nimo
