by 
View my bio on Blurt.media: https://blurt.media/c/manuel78
Hey friend. Grab a warm drink and just breathe with me for a minute. I want to talk about those heavy seasons we all walk through. The mornings where the ceiling feels too close, and simply putting one foot forward feels like wading through deep water. Maybe you’re sitting in that exact quiet right now. If you are, I see you. This isn’t a lecture. It’s just a quiet conversation about how
we sometimes fall, how we stay down, and how, eventually, a little light finds its way back to us.
Let’s be honest about the fall. It rarely happens in one dramatic crash. Despair doesn’t kick the door down; it seeps through the cracks. It starts as a quiet disappointment, a dream that slowly stops feeling possible. You tell yourself you’re fine. You keep showing up. But somewhere along the way, the spark dims. The things that used to light you up start feeling like heavy chores. Friends get busy. Routines turn into ruts. And before you know it, you’re not just tired—you’re hollow. That’s when you stop climbing. That’s when you finally let go.
And you fall. Not into a physical hole, but into that internal place we don’t talk about enough. The pit. The one where time slows to a crawl, where colors
fade to muted grays, where your own thoughts become the walls closing in. At first, there’s a strange comfort in surrender. You stop resisting. You stop
pretending. You just let the darkness wrap around you and tell yourself it’s easier this way. No more expectations. No more trying. Just stillness. But stillness isn’t peace. It’s just numbness.
Days blur. You stop tracking time. You’re just breathing in, breathing out,
waiting for nothing. And then, one ordinary evening, the air shifts. It’s not loud. It’s just a flicker. A warmth. Faint. Distant. But real. You don’t move. Moving means hoping. Hoping means risking disappointment. So you stay still. But the presence comes closer. Footsteps. Soft. Deliberate. Then comes the light. Not blinding. Just a soft glow, like dawn filtering through thin curtains. She doesn’t offer cheap platitudes. She just sits down on the cold
stone beside you. Like sharing coffee. Because it isn’t about fixing you. It’s about sitting with you. In the dark. Without flinching.
You sit like that for a long time. Something shifts. The silence isn’t suffocating anymore. It’s just quiet. Room to breathe. She doesn’t promise the top. She just waits. Lets you find your footing. And eventually, you do. Not with a grand gesture. Just a shift in weight. A hand on the stone. A
realization that you don’t have to stay down here forever. You’re tired of the dark. And tired, in this case, is a good thing. It means you’re ready.
The first step is always the hardest. Moving means leaving the familiar pit.
But stillness isn’t living. It’s just waiting. So you move. One hand. Then the other. She doesn’t pull you up. She just lights the path one step at a time. Breathing hard. With every inch, the light grows. Not because she’s magic. Just because you’re moving toward it. That’s how it works. You reach solid ground. You collapse onto your knees. And when you finally look up, you see the world. Trees. Sky. Color. Life. You’re part of it again. Flawed. Tired. But present. She steps back, making space. You take a step forward. Into the
day. Into the unknown. The dark doesn’t disappear. It just becomes a place you’ve been. A compass. A reminder that even when you swear you’ll never see the light again… it’s still there. Waiting. For you.
