Chapter 1
When I was little, I whispered often.
Not to people. (they didn’t always hear me right).
But to God, in the quiet corners of rooms,
under covers,
on school libraries,
in bathrooms where my tears felt safest.
I told Him I had a small heart.
It wasn’t a metaphor.
It hurt. (easily, constantly).
Words bruised it.
Looks pierced it.
Silences crushed it.
So I made a deal with Him, sort of.
I said, "Just get me there, okay?
Wherever there is.
Somewhere better.
Somewhere where it doesn’t feel like this."
I didn’t know what there was.
Maybe I thought it was adulthood,
or success,
or being loved without question.
Years passed.
He got me there.
Kind of.
I looked around one day,
and I was in the place I used to pray for.
But it didn’t feel like I imagined.
It was colder.
Harder.
Quieter.
People smiled, but not always kindly.
I had the things I thought I wanted,
but my small heart still broke just as fast.
Maybe faster.
And so I looked up and whispered again:
"God, I don’t like it here."
And He didn’t say anything.
But I remembered a song.
one where a girl sang about growing flowers
even when no one else brought her any.
About loving herself
because waiting to be saved
was too much like dying slowly.
And I realized:
Maybe the place I asked Him to bring me to
wasn’t a location.
Maybe it was a version of myself
who could grow her own garden
even when it hurt.
Even when her heart was small
and sore
and tired.
So now,
sometimes,
I still whisper.
But not to ask Him to take me somewhere.
Just to sit with me while I plant another flower.
