I didn’t stop trying because I ran out of hope.
I stopped because trying the same way
was hollowing me out.
I tried while waiting for signs.
While replaying conversations.
While measuring time
like it owed me something.
I called it patience.
But it was fear
dressed up as faith.
So when the thought came —
this time, try again with God —
it wasn’t comforting.
It was confronting.
Because it asked for something different.
Not reassurance.
Not a promise.
Not an ending I could lean on.
Just movement
without bargaining.
Trying again with God didn’t mean doing less.
It meant doing it
without keeping score.
The honesty I’d been avoiding.
The boundary I kept delaying.
The decision I already knew.
And then — silence.
Not abandonment.
Not punishment.
Just the absence of panic.
This time, God wasn’t there
to change the ending.
He was there
so I wouldn’t break
while waiting for it.