"Where the Child Still Lives"

There is a place where memories float gently, like fallen leaves on a quiet stream. That place lives within you—still breathing, still calling. Once, it was a paper boat you folded with your small hands, letting it drift along puddles that mirrored the sky. You didn’t know then that you were launching hope.

The child in you was once so bright, so fearless in wonder. Even your pillow knew your secrets, the way it caught your tears and muffled the echoes of your quiet fears. Yet, you were never truly alone.

You once cared for tiny green lives in mismatched pots you painted with clumsy fingers. The plants you watered, the soil you pressed down, they were the beginnings of belief—that from little seeds come living things. Those pots still exist somewhere—in your memory, maybe even on a forgotten shelf—but the growth they sparked has never ceased.

Time has moved on. The curtains now drift toward the sun, light flooding into rooms that once held shadows. You may have left behind the child-sized furniture, but not the child. She is still there. She waits behind your weary sighs and busy schedules, still hoping you’ll let her out to play.

The sky remembers you. It still whispers your name at sunset, in streaks of gold and lavender. The stars, too, still sing—soft lullabies made of dreams you once dared to dream. They haven't forgotten.

You’ve walked through trials. You’ve questioned, cried, doubted. Life, in its strange duality, brought both grief and grace. But in every step forward, the universe cheered you on. The very same universe that birthed galaxies carved a space for you, just for you.

Sometimes life seems black and white—routine, responsibility, reality. But the prismatic colors of a future still call. They bleed into your moments unexpectedly—in laughter, in music, in kindness—and they hint at something more vibrant than you’ve allowed yourself to imagine.

When you’re happy, time races. When sadness visits, it lingers. But every sunrise is proof that mercy flows fresh each day. The golden glow of morning isn’t just light—it’s a reminder: you’re alive. You’re still here.

Don’t live small. Don’t shrink to fit others’ comfort. Regret has no power in the face of present courage. Look toward the sunlight; let it blast through the dark walls you’ve built from fear or pain.

You’re allowed to start again. Not just once, but every day.

There exists a world—a sacred world—where you don’t have to grow up. Where your inner child isn’t something to hush or hide but to celebrate. A world where wonder is wisdom. Where innocence is insight.

Let her return.

Let her laugh without reason, cry without shame, dance without rhythm. Let her breathe again. She’s waited for this moment.

Yes, the child in you has died a thousand small deaths—every time you were told to be strong when you just needed a hug, every time your wonder was labeled as naïve. But for every death, there is a rebirth. And in each rebirth, joy and wonder collide in sparks that illuminate your soul.

That place where your child once played? It’s still home. Not a building, but a feeling. Not somewhere you go, but somewhere you remember.

This world was made for you, too.

Despite its chaos and contradictions, despite its noise and numbness, your joys can still outnumber your hurts. They will—if you let them in.

Truth and lies walk hand in hand in this world, yes. But the garden still grows—fed by the rain, kissed by the sun. Your life is still that garden. And it’s never too late to plant something beautiful.

You are God’s most expansive treasure.

You are loved beyond words, beyond worth, beyond human understanding. Nothing you’ve done, no pain you’ve endured, can separate you from that love. It’s woven into your being, stitched into your story.

So stay strong. Stay tender. Stay you.

And you will be safe—not from pain, but in glory. Because glory isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. It's about living with your heart wide open, even after it’s been broken.