I asked Jesus for a sign, not because I doubted His power, but because I needed to feel His nearness. What I got wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was a quiet day with my son. A porch, a croissant, a prayer. But I knew He heard me. The blessings I prayed for years ago? They’re here now. Not in the way I pictured them, but in the way I need. And the rest are already on their way.

For the first time in 16 years, I stepped into a Catholic church — and it felt like coming home. The Mass centered around Luke 9:1-2, a passage that felt so full-circle because Luke was the first book I ever read in the Bible. It was a reminder that, no matter where we’ve been or how far we’ve fallen, God’s love is for us. The priest spoke about how the church must be a place of welcome for everyone, especially those who’ve been hurt by it, and it hit me hard. As a single mom, I’ve often felt judged, but that homily reminded me that God’s love is for the broken, the imperfect, the ones who feel like they don’t belong. We all have a place in His arms.

I used to wake up from dreams feeling broken. Now I wake up realizing even in my sleep, I’m choosing healing. I’m not reacting the way I used to — not lashing out, not crumbling. Even in my subconscious, God is changing me. The enemy may still know where to aim, but my spirit remembers who I belong to. Healing isn’t just happening during the day. It’s happening in the quiet, in the dark, in the unseen — and it’s real.

There was a time when I thought asking God for more meant I wasn’t thankful. I whispered prayers with disclaimers and softened the truth of what I really longed for. A home. A steady love. A life that didn’t feel like survival. I thought if I wanted more, I must not appreciate what I already had. But over time, I’ve come to believe something different.

Desire is not betrayal. Hunger is not disobedience. And maybe God is the one who put that dream in your heart in the first place. You don’t have to apologize for wanting a softer life. A rooted one. A life that fits.

You can be grateful and still ask for more.

I used to think Mary was too perfect to understand me — until I became a mother. Until I said yes to a pregnancy that changed everything. Until I started to realize that maybe holiness isn't about having it all together... maybe it's about choosing love anyway. We both said yes. And now, I don't feel so alone.

A lot of people meet God in the dark — in their lowest, most broken moments. I didn’t. I met Him in the light. Not the blinding, performance-driven kind of light, but the warm, quiet light that slipped through my tired soul and whispered, You don’t have to live like that anymore.

Motherhood and healing slowly brought me here — to peace, softness, and a steady heart. And over time, I realized it wasn’t just God I had found — it was Jesus. Gentle, present, and nothing like I had been warned about.

Maybe your story doesn’t start in the pit. Maybe it starts in the gentle light. And that’s holy too.