I asked for peace.
Life gave me silence, disconnection—
and nothing to scroll away the discomfort.
Canceled plans,
one painfully awkward dinner with my parents.
(Spoiler: it worked.)

I prayed for strength.
Life handed me
spilled coffee,
a broken umbrella,
and a boss who emails at 12:01 AM.
Turns out—I flinch less now.
(Okay, maybe once.)

I begged for purpose.
Life said: “Laundry.”
Endless, sockless, mismatched piles.
I folded.
Then cried.
Then wrote a poem about it.
Now it’s framed in someone’s guest bathroom—
right above the toilet paper,
which feels oddly correct.

I wanted blessings.
Expected glitter.
Got bills, back pain,
and unsolicited advice
from my aunt who sells protein powder.
(Still, her hug saved me once.)

Turns out, blessings are quiet.
Struggles don’t wear signs.
And sometimes,
growth is just showing up—
with tired eyes, mismatched socks,
and a heart that’s tired,
but still says, “again.”