I was told as a child that God loved me— not gently, not quietly, but in bold declarations from pulpits and pages, in verses memorized like passwords to belonging. “Unconditional,” they said. “Everlasting.” “A love beyond understanding.” But understanding was all I had— and it never reached my chest. I searched for it in folded hands and closed eyes, in whispered prayers that felt like letters sent with no return address. I waited for warmth, for something unmistakable— a voice, a presence, a certainty. Instead, there was silence. Or worse— a quiet suspicion that maybe I was the exception. So I tried harder. Polished my thoughts, filtered my flaws, confessed what I could name and buried what I couldn’t. If God was love, then I would earn it by becoming lovable. But the gap remained. — Years later, I sat cross-legged on the floor, not in a church, but in stillness. No sermon. No expectation. Just breath— in, out. At first it felt pointless. Almost rebellious. No asking, no pleading, no reaching outward. Only noticing. A thought arose: You’re not enough. And instead of fighting it, I was told— just watch it pass. Another came: You’ve failed too many times. And instead of confessing it away, I was told— offer it kindness. Kindness? To myself? It felt foreign. Almost wrong. But I stayed. Breathing. Watching. Softening. — And somewhere in that quiet, something shifted. Not a voice from above, but a loosening within. The harsh edges of my thoughts began to round. The constant measuring, the quiet self-rejection— it softened. I placed a hand on my chest one day, not out of ritual, but instinct. And I said, “It’s okay.” Not because I had earned it. Not because I had fixed anything. Just… because. And for the first time, I felt something that resembled what I had been promised: a warmth that didn’t demand, didn’t evaluate, didn’t withdraw. — It confused me. This compassion— this gentle, steady presence— felt more like love than anything I had chased before. And yet, it came not from reaching upward, but from turning inward. Was this betrayal? Or was it discovery? — I began to wonder: What if the love I was taught was never absent— only obscured? What if the divine was not only a voice beyond me, but a presence that could breathe through me? What if grace was not something I had to convince God to give, but something I had to stop withholding from myself? — Now I sit sometimes with both. A quiet prayer, and a quiet breath. I no longer beg to be seen as worthy. I practice seeing myself that way. And in those moments— when I meet my own pain with gentleness instead of judgment— I feel something unmistakable: Not distant. Not conditional. Not earned. Just… here. And whether I call it God or awareness or compassion— it finally feels like love.
