A fragmented essay on grace, endurance, and becoming
Let’s begin here.
We talk about grace like it’s gentle.
Like it drifts down from the sky, soft and unassuming, asking nothing, fixing everything.
But grace?
Real grace?
It’s much harder than that.
Grace doesn’t care that you don’t want it.
It shows up anyway.
Uninvited. Unapologetic. Unrelenting.
It walks into the room you locked from the inside
and sits with you in the silence or finds you in the chaos.
Grace doesn’t wait for permission.
It doesn’t require your readiness.
It doesn’t negotiate with your shame.
You don’t have to want it.
You don’t have to choose it.
You just have to survive long enough
to notice it never left.
And it seldom looks the way you think it should.
It doesn’t wear white robes or speak in soft tones.
Sometimes it looks like exhaustion.
Like failure.
Like everything falling apart — just before something shifts.
Grace isn’t polite.
It doesn’t always comfort.
Sometimes, it wrecks you — just to rebuild you.
It shows up in the middle of your mess,
Not after you’ve cleaned yourself up.
Not when you’re ready —
But when you’re raw and real.
You don’t get to pick its form.
You just learn to recognize its fingerprints
on the things you once resented.
Grace holds you accountable — but it doesn’t hold regret.
It will ask you to own your authenticity
It will drag the truth into the light,
not to shame you,
but to free you.
Grace doesn’t let you off the hook —
it pulls you through it.
Through the wreckage.
Through the mirror.
Through the parts you’d rather bury.
But once it’s done its work,
once it’s named what needed naming,
grace doesn’t linger in the past.
It doesn’t replay the failures on loop.
It doesn’t sit with regret.
It releases.
It rebuilds.
It reclaims.
Grace is work.
Yours.
Mine.
But make no mistake — it’s work.
It pushes.
It pulls.
It knocks you down.
And still, somehow,
it lifts.
It shows you your reflection:
A place to start.
A place to reach for.
A reminder that every version is worth redeeming.
Grace sees you.
It sees you becoming.
It understands the purpose of all the pieces—
not just the polished one.
The raw one.
The ragged one.
The trying one.
Every already, almost. and not-yet.
Grace doesn’t flinch.
It holds the whole of you—
and stays.
It says,
“Let’s begin here.”
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