I used to think the world defined me.
That every loss, every rejection, every absence wrote my story before I had the chance to pick up a pen.
But through the Creator’s eyes, I am not my wounds. I am not the empty chair where my mother should have been. I am not the silence of a family that could not love me the way I needed.
Through the Creator’s eyes, I am a survivor cloaked in light.
Every stumble became part of my becoming.
Every tear watered the ground I now stand on.
Every lonely night carved space for strength I didn’t know I had.
The Creator never saw me as abandoned.
Even when I felt invisible, unseen by the world, heaven had its gaze fixed on me, watching as I crawled out of darkness, as I stitched myself back together without a guide, as I learned to mother the child in me who only wanted warmth.
Through the Creator’s eyes, my scars are not shameful, they shimmer. My tenderness is not weakness, it’s divine rebellion in a world that begged me to harden.
And when the noise of life tries to tell me I’m unworthy, I quiet myself and remember:
The Creator has never looked at me and seen anything less than extraordinary.
