It Would All Make Sense Someday

When Mary's life fell apart  (her career, her hope, and her belief in herself),   her mother's old words echoed in her mind: "It will all make sense someday."

She never believed those words until life brought her back home, to where everything began. It was the place she feared returning to the most.

Her mother always said it would all make sense someday, especially when life felt like a puzzle with missing pieces.

But for Mary, someday felt like a promise that always ended in disappointment.

At twenty-eight, she sat in her dim apartment. The refrigerator hummed, louder than her thoughts. Her laptop showed another job rejection, her fourth this month. She read the email, filled with the usual polite words: We regret to inform you…

Her heart sank again.

She thought she had done everything right. She graduated with honours, moved to the city, worked hard, networked, smiled, tried, failed, and tried again, but still failed even more.

Now her rent was due, her fridge was empty, and the dreams that once inspired her were starting to fade.

She whispered, "What's wrong with me?"

Outside, life went on. Cars honked, people laughed, and coffee cups clinked in cafes. Everyone seemed to move forward, but Mary felt stuck. It was as if every effort only pulled her deeper into despair.

Then her phone buzzed.

It was a message from her younger brother.

Ted: "Aunty says Mama's condition got worse. Can you come home?"

Her chest tightened. Home.

The word brought back memories she wasn't ready to face. She hadn't returned in years, not since she left with a suitcase full of dreams and her mother's words echoing behind her.

"Go, my child. The world won't wait for your fears."

But she went.

The bus ride home was long and quiet. She watched the countryside go by— green fields, the sound of crickets, and the sunburned earth where she once played barefoot. Everything seemed smaller, quieter, and older. Maybe she had changed too.

When she arrived, the house looked just as she remembered: faded blue paint, a roof that creaked with every gust of wind, and the smell of palm oil and wood smoke in the air.

And then there was her mother.

Lying on a bed by the window, frail but still wearing that same gentle smile that had carried Mary through so many storms.

"Mary," her mother whispered. "You came."

"I'm here, Mother," she said, kneeling beside her.

Her mother reached out a trembling hand, tracing the back of Mary's fingers as if memorising them.

"Do you remember what I used to tell you?" she asked softly.

Mary nodded, tears threatening to spill.

Her mother smiled faintly. "It will all make sense someday. Don't stop walking, even when the road disappears."

Those were her last words.

After the funeral, Mary stayed. Something about leaving felt wrong. She spent her days cleaning the house, sorting through old things, and sitting in silence, not knowing how to fill it.

That's when she found it: a wooden box tucked behind her mother's wardrobe. Inside were yellowed papers, teaching certificates, and dozens of folded letters.

Each letter began the same way:

"Dear Me, don't lose faith. You're planting seeds you may never see grow."

The letters were raw and real. They were honest and heartfelt, with her mother writing to herself through years of loss, poverty, loneliness, and courage. Some described feeling unseen and questioning if her sacrifices mattered. Others spoke of faith and trusting the process, even when life felt uncertain.

She realised then that her mother hadn't been talking about herself all these years. She'd been talking to her.

"It will all make sense someday" was more than just comfort; it was a guide.

Two months later, Mary decided to stay. She spent all the money she had left to repaint her mother’s old classroom and open it again. Soon, it became a small learning centre for village children who couldn’t afford tutors and reminded her of herself.

The days were long but truly fulfilling. Mary found herself laughing again. She taught and listened to the children’s wild dreams, seeing in them the same spark her mother once saw in her.

One afternoon, she watched the children reading under the mango tree where her mother used to teach. A breeze moved through the leaves. The air smelled of earth, rain, and something special. She closed her eyes and smiled.

It took years of confusion, heartbreak, and silence, but in that moment, everything finally made sense.

Life almost never makes sense when you’re still in the middle of the storm.

Understanding comes later, after the tears, the losses, and the waiting are over.

Sometimes, the things that break you are quietly getting you ready for what will build you up.

So if you’re in a time when nothing makes sense, hold on. You’re not lost. You’re growing.

One day, when things have settled, you’ll look back and quietly say,

"Now I see. It all makes sense."