You Are Returning

Not all who run are lost — but some are tired.

There was a day I was running.
My head was aching, my heart, thrumming.
I had lost what I was — but not what I could become.
I had lost my world, though my words were not gone.

Distressed, I managed to open my eyes.
Is there any hope in this place?
Or was it all a mistake?

The first thing I saw wasn’t light. It was space.
A soft emptiness. The kind that doesn’t scare you — it holds you.
Like a question that doesn’t need an answer.
Like silence, when it finally feels like home.

I don’t know if this was part of a story.
Maybe it was just a sentence trying to find its way back.
Or maybe it’s the way all stories begin — not with an introduction, but with a fracture.

Most people don’t run because they want to escape.
They run because something inside them still believes there’s a place worth arriving at.
Even if they don’t know where.
Even if the only thing they carry is the rhythm of their own breath.
Even if they don’t call it hope.

But it is.

Hope doesn’t always look like light.
Sometimes, it’s just the quiet permission to begin again.
To breathe again. To try — even if you’re not sure why.
Even if your faith is fragile. Even if all you can say is: “I’m here.”

I started this space not because I had the answers — but because I had the ache.
And I knew I couldn’t be the only one.

If you’re here, maybe you’ve also run.
Or maybe you’ve been still for too long.
Either way… welcome.

You’re not late. You’re returning.
And something greater has been waiting with patience — not to save you, but to walk beside you.