I don’t remember when my knees hit the ground.

I don’t remember how the sob broke out of my chest —

the kind that doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t care who hears it.

I just remember the weight finally being too much.

All those years

smiling like things were fine,

working hard,

keeping people close,

losing them,

lying to myself that I was “strong.”

All the guilt.

The shame.

The sins I swore I’d buried deep enough.

But they never left. They just waited.

And now the storm is loud

but not louder than me whispering through clenched teeth:

“God… I can’t do this anymore.”

Not in anger.

Not even in fear.

Just… surrender.

Like handing my whole story to the sky and saying:

“If You’re there, please… take it. Take me. All of it.”

I’m not asking for a car.

Not a lover.

Not a second chance.

I’m just begging to be heard.

To not feel like I’m the only one who knows how heavy this all is.

And then, quietly…

I do feel it.

Not a voice.

Not some magical sign.

Just this…

stillness.

Right there in the chaos.

As if Heaven leaned in closer – not to fix me,

but to hold me.

Like God didn’t come to save the version of me everyone praises.

He came for the broken one.

The one who doesn’t have the answers.

The one on the ground, soaked and undone, whispering:

“Please forgive me. Please don’t leave me. Please… just let me breathe.”

And I know what?

That prayer

raw, filthy, shaking, honest

is enough.

That’s the moment it breaks open.

Not the sky

me.

And in the wreckage, I realize:

I was never supposed to carry this alone.

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