I heard your tears cry.
In awe, I draw a slow breath, honoring the truth that life is a steep path for nearly every soul who walks it. I would never lessen the weight of what you’ve carried. Your pain is sacred, and I recognize echoes of it in my own journey—echoes of my mother, echoes of yours, woven through our stories like threads we never asked for.
We ask why, not to blame, but to understand the shape of our lives. And yet the answers come only in whispers. Still, we move forward, guided by a quiet wisdom that lives beneath the wounds. We are human, they were human—flawed, searching, and blind in the same ways we are.
Often we believe we see clearly, only to discover later how far we were from the heart of truth. And those who raised us were just as lost in their own illusions, doing what they could with the light they had.
I wonder, as you must too: What is all of this really about? Every time we reach into the deeper places—through prayer, reflection, or silence—we return with fragments: hints of meaning, glimpses of something concealed but never absent.
Why are we born to those who may not have been ready for us? Why do some children arrive into warmth while others arrive into storms? The imbalance feels ancient, unfair, almost cosmic.
And so we ask the tender question:
What did I do? What did you do?
Perhaps nothing. Perhaps the soul simply chose its lessons before memory existed. Perhaps the hurt was never punishment, only a doorway.
What we know is this: we are here, learning, awakening, and being shaped into who we were always meant to become—with every breath, every sorrow, every small, sacred step forward.
My art
My Near Death Experience Arts and Thoughts 