Looking Back
Tonight, I feel like a ghost haunting my own life. Not from the past— but from somewhere ahead. As if an older version of my soul has quietly slipped into this moment, sat beside me in this chair, and whispered, “Look around.” Look at these walls. This little condo. This exact seat. Your age. Your mother’s laughter down the hall. Your husband’s familiar presence. Your children— still this young, still becoming. One day, none of this will exist quite like this again. And suddenly, the ordinary becomes sacred. I find myself counting invisible things: the years I’ve walked my path, the circles I’ve stood within, the words I’ve memorized, the hands I’ve held in trust, the quiet bonds that shaped me behind closed doors. Even the storms— the whispers, the drama, the names that ripple through our community— feel like threads in a tapestry I don’t yet know how to read. My heart keeps asking what waits beyond the horizon. What if I arrive where I’ve spent years longing to be… and I don’t belong...