I was not born holy—
I was dragged through the gravel of my own decisions,
knees split open on the sharp edge of regret,
mouth full of the dust of things I swore I’d never become.
I wore failure like a second skin—
stitched tight,
tailored by every whispered “my best is not good enough,”
every door that closed with a key
But listen—
there is a moment
when the silence stops being empty
and starts being sacred.
A moment when the dark isn’t a grave,
it’s a womb.
And something in me—
no, not me—
something through me
began to breathe.
Not loud.
Not thunder.
More like oil
poured slow over a head bowed too long—
warm, deliberate,
undeniable.
Anointing doesn’t ask permission.
It arrives.
And suddenly these scars—
these maps of everywhere I’ve been broken—
start glowing like constellations.
God doesn’t erase them.
God reads them.
Calls them scripture.
Says:
“You thought you were buried,
but you were planted.”
And I—
I rise.
Not polished.
Not perfect.
But chosen anyway.
I rise with dirt still under my nails,
with doubt still knocking at the door,
but now—
now I answer it standing.
Because redemption
is not a clean slate—
it’s a fire
And I walk amung the snakes
and remember who bit as I went past
So if you see me shining,
understand—
this is not light I found.
This is light
that found me
in the lowest place
and said:
“Stand up.
You are not finished.
You are anointed
Blessed.”