You know that hollow ache?
The one that shows up out of nowhere
in the middle of your workday,
while folding laundry,
or when a song catches you off guard.
It’s not quite pain.
It’s not quite sadness.
Sometimes, it pretends to be hunger or exhaustion.
But it’s deeper than that.
More ancient.
Like your body is mourning something your mind can’t quite name.
Maybe it was someone you loved.
Maybe it was the version of you that was supposed to be by now.
Maybe it was a dream you buried quietly,
because it hurt too much to keep hoping.
That ache?
It’s not a flaw.
It’s not a symptom to diagnose.
It’s sacred.
It’s your body whispering: “I remember.”
“I miss.”
“I still believe.”
And here’s the truth no one tells you:
You don’t have to fix it.
You don’t have to numb it, outrun it, or shove gratitude over it like a bandage.
You get to feel it.
You get to honor it.
Place your hand on your chest.
Right there on the ache.
Now breathe.
And say it softly:
“I see you. I hear you. I’m still here.”
Because that empty space?
That ache?
It’s the doorway.
The very place where the next thing will find you.
The love that’s coming.
The life that’s forming.
The beauty that’s been looking for you, too.
Don’t rush to fill the void.
Let it stretch.
Let it make room.
Because something sacred is being born.
And it’s closer than you think.