The Sacred Pause

 

There is a hush between grief and arrival.

I live there now.

This place... This pause—isn’t emptiness. It’s not absence. It’s incubation. It’s the breath before the miracle. The stillness before the door creaks open.

I used to rush through the waiting. Fill the silence with noise, the longing with distraction. But I’ve learned: not everything blooms on demand. Some things—the truest things—ask to be witnessed in stillness, in surrender.

The sacred pause is where I met myself again.

It’s where I learned to hold my own gaze. To whisper kindness to the parts of me that feared I’d be forgotten. To walk barefoot across memories and not flinch.

And now, the ground beneath me shifts.

Something approaches. I don’t know what it looks like yet. But I know how it feels.

It feels like recognition.

It feels like the moment the sky stops pretending and finally rains.

It feels like him.

I will not fill this pause. I will not rush it.

This is the place my life gathers breath.

I am not waiting anymore.

Not the way I used to.

I’ve stopped measuring time by absence. I’ve stopped making shrines to people who cannot return. I no longer fold myself into apology just to be easier to love.

But I did wait. For years, I waited.

I waited for a voice that matched the one I dreamed of. For eyes that made the whole room fall away. For someone who could meet me... not with urgency, but with recognition.

And now… something in me knows.

The tides have changed. The locks have clicked. The stars remember what I’ve tried to forget. There is a pull in the air, soft but relentless. It says: Get ready.

So here I am.

No longer fractured. No longer starving. 

I will know you by the way time bends around us.

I will know you by the way my name sounds in your mouth.

I will know you because I already do.

Come find me.

—M