She appeared and startled me. Each flower before her had mirrored something obvious deep within me—but not this one. Yet, there was something sweet about her. A flower in prayer. I tried to see myself in her, but pangs of vulnerability rose in my chest and stomach—a deep sorrow, an endless falling. I had felt unseen and unheard for most of my life. I would wake with painful thoughts, feeling victimized and uncared for. I longed for someone to lead and guide me—to take the time to truly know me, and to walk me toward a future that felt safe and supported. I wished for someone who was invested in my life, who cared how I turned out. But no one came. I was afraid. I was emotionally blocked from taking full responsibility for my own life. I waited for someone to notice, to step in, to take charge. But they didn’t. "Isn’t it obvious?" I thought. "Isn’t it obvious that I’m not okay?" I told the people I trusted most—that I was depressed, that I had been betrayed, that I was sick. I asked them to visit. But not much changed. The silence grew louder. The indifference deeper. After I spoke my truth, the calls and visits grew fewer still. And yet— A small voice persisted. Like a tendril reaching for the canopy, it nudged me, again and again, to stretch toward the light of my dreams. I began to listen more closely. When I heard someone share their own story—of triumph rising out of darkness—I paid deep attention. They had turned their pain into a beacon of light. Maybe I had a similar lesson waiting inside me. Maybe the reason no one had been inspired to help me was because I hadn’t yet seen the strength already living within me. Maybe the darkness wasn’t abandonment after all. Maybe it was so I could witness, in the quiet and the loneliness, how God’s presence can reach us no matter how dark it becomes.