Entry Four

I read something recently about spirituality —
that it isn’t a single moment of awakening,
not some dramatic crossing into light,
but something lived quietly, every day.
In how you choose to lead.
In how you show up.
In how you move through ordinary moments.

That stayed with me.

Because when I look at my life honestly, spirituality has always found me in the small spaces.
In line at the store.
In passing conversations.
In strangers who suddenly open their hearts and say,
I don’t know why I’m telling you this.

People have poured their stories into me without knowing my name.
Grief. Fear. Love. Loss.
As if something in me said, it’s safe here.

I’ve had mothers share their deepest losses with me.
I’ve been told, thank you for being the only person who made my baby feel seen.

That landed somewhere deep in my body.
A quiet ache.
A quiet knowing.

I know Jacob came to me and left for a reason.
I don’t know yet what I’m meant to do with that truth.
Maybe there isn’t a doing.
Maybe the meaning isn’t loud.

Maybe it’s this.

To see people.
To sit with them where they are.
To offer the presence I didn’t feel held by when I was moving through a loss I never wanted.

I read once that some people are human medicine.
That you spend an hour with them and something in you softens.
Something feels less alone.

I hope I am that for people.
Not to heal them.
Not to fix anything.
But to witness them.
To make them feel seen when they feel invisible.

If this is what spirituality looks like — then it’s not something I need to seek.
It’s something I’ve been living all along.

—

The forest keeps this