Aspiring Poet, heartfelt thoughts.I have Just Discovered that I can write

  There is a pain that comes from being misunderstood. Not the kind of pain that leaves a bruise you can point to. Not the kind of pain that people can easily see and sympathize with. It is the pain of fighting a battle inside your own mind while the world around you only sees the moments when you struggle. For those living with conditions like bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, there are days when the greatest battle is not just the illness itself. It is being judged by people who do not understand it. People may see the frustration. They may see the confusion. They may see the moments when emotions become overwhelming, when thoughts race faster than they can be controlled, when fear and reality seem to collide. But they do not see the war happening behind the eyes. They do not see the exhaustion of trying to explain something that is almost impossible to put into words. They do not see the prayers whispered in the darkness: "God, please help me make it through today...

 There are nights when my own mind becomes a kingdom of shadows, and I find myself walking through corridors no other soul can enter. This is my life with mental illness. To the world, I may appear as though I am simply moving through another day. They see my face. They hear my voice. They see me standing beneath the same sky they stand beneath. But they do not see the storm that follows me. They do not hear the thunder that echoes within my thoughts, nor do they know the strength it takes to rise each morning and face a battle that no eye can witness. My mind, at times, becomes both the battlefield and the enemy. Thoughts creep like whispers in the darkness, and I wrestle with them long after the world has fallen asleep. There are moments when I wonder if anyone truly knows the weight I carry. Not because people do not care. But because there are places in my soul where no human hand can reach. There is only One who sees the whole of me. My Saviour. He sees the tears I ...

I know you will not receive this letter the way you would have when you were here, but maybe this is more for me than it is for you. Maybe it is my heart trying to put into words what has been sitting there quietly for the past year. I miss you. There are so many things I wish I could tell you. So many little moments I would give anything to experience one more time. When I think about you, I remember the late-night lectures — the ones I probably did not appreciate as much as I should have back then. I remember sitting on the stairs, listening to you teach me, guide me, correct me, and shape me. I remember 7th Street in Kingfisher, where our home became my classroom. I remember wishing I could go to a regular school with other kids. At the time, I did not understand why my life was different. I wanted what everyone else seemed to have. But now, looking back with the eyes of someone who has lived more life, I see what I could not see then. I see a mom who had so much to do, so ma...

  There are days when life makes perfect sense. The sun is shining. The bills are paid. The people we love are gathered close. Our prayers seem to rise straight to Heaven and come back wrapped in peace. On those days, "Hallelujah" rolls off the tongue with ease. Then there are the other days. Days when shadows linger longer than they should. Days when the doctor's report brings more questions than answers. Days when grief sits beside us at the table and refuses to leave. Days when our minds become tangled in a thousand thoughts, trying to understand what cannot be understood. Those are the days that teach us what Hallelujah really means. The human mind is a remarkable thing. It searches for reasons. It wants explanations. It wants every loose end tied neatly into a bow. We look at the world and try to separate everything into categories: good and bad, victory and defeat, blessing and sorrow. Yet life rarely cooperates with our neat little boxes. Sometimes joy and sorrow s...

The house still remembers her. Not in a way I can prove, not in anything I can point to and explain cleanly, but in the quiet way a place changes when someone who shaped it is no longer walking through it. It is my father’s house, and he still lives there, but it is not the same home it once was. I go to see my dad. But I still go to see her too. And both of those things are true every time I pull into the driveway. The couch is still there. The rooms still hold the arrangement of her life, even if no one says it out loud anymore. Nothing has been dramatically changed, but everything feels permanently altered. Like the house is still learning how to exist without the one who made it feel complete. When I step inside, my eyes still do the same thing first—they look for her. Not because I expect her to be there, but because love does not stop searching just because it has been told the answer. My dad is there. That matters more than I can say. He is still in the house, still holding on t...

 At the feet of Jesus there are no years to measure— no anniversaries, no “one year gone.” Only now. I wonder what that now feels like for her. Does she remember the ache of this world, or has it already fallen away like a coat she no longer needs? Here, I count days with a tight chest. There, she stands where love has weight, where faith is no longer whispered but spoken face to face. I wonder if she knows how often I still reach for her, how time keeps pressing forward while she rests outside of it. She is not waiting. She is not missing anything. She is where all questions finally exhale— at the feet of Jesus, where eternity is gentle and grief cannot follow. And I remain, learning how to live in seconds, trusting that one day time will loosen its grip, and I’ll step into that same now, and see her there.                                                   ...