I Didn’t Pull It Up

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:03

Good morning, good morning, good morning. I'm sitting outside again, just watching the world move the way it always does. Like nothing ever slows down for anyone. Cars passing, people going somewhere, life continuing. And I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, quiet thinking, the kind you don't always say out loud right away. Because sometimes life gets heavy in ways you don't immediately know how to explain. So you just sit with it and you breathe through it. And I'll be honest with you, there have been moments where I've broken down and cried. Not because I'm weak, but because I'm human. I sat in silence and felt like everything I've worked for, everything I've built, everything I've been holding together with my own hands was slowly slipping, not all at once, but piece by piece, quietly. And that kind of feeling it changes the way you see everything, even the small things. Like my tomato plant, I looked at it this morning and it looked gone. Dried out, finished, no life showing on the surface. But I didn't pull it up because something in me refused to declare it over because I've learned something about life. Sometimes what looks finished is just resting. Sometimes what looks dead is just waiting. And sometimes what looks like the end is really just a pause before renewal. And I've realized something about myself in that moment. I've been like that plant. There are parts of me that don't look the way they used to, parts that feel worn down by everything I've been carrying, but I didn't pull myself out of the ground either because I still believe in what's inside me, even if it doesn't show yet, even if it's quiet right now. And I think that's where a lot of us are trying, holding on, smiling through things we don't always talk about, doing our best with what we have left, and still waking up the next day anyway. That's not small. That strength most people will never see. And some days all I've had is the smallest piece of hope. Not loud hope, not confident hope, just enough hope to say I'm still here, I'm still trying. I'm not done yet. And if you're listening to this right now, I just want you to sit with that for a moment. You're still here. Even if it's been hard, even if you've had moments where you didn't know how you were going to keep going. You're still here. And that means something. That means you're still in your story. Not the ending, just a chapter. And me, I'm still here too. Still building, still growing, still believing that what's meant for me won't slip away, even when it feels like it might. And if my voice, my story, or these moments I share with you bring you comfort or help you feel a little less alone in yours, then I'm grateful for that connection. Because this isn't just me talking, it's me surviving out loud. And I'll see you in the next one.