If You Ever Make It

If you ever make it—

and I pray to God you do—

I need you to remember something.

Right now?

I’m exhausted.

Not the kind of tired sleep can fix.

The kind that comes from dragging around

a version of myself

I barely recognize anymore.

Most days I fake it.

I talk like I believe in myself.

Sometimes I almost do.

Other days?

I rehearse failure

before life even gives me the script.

I smile when I’m supposed to.

Say the right words.

Play the part.

But behind closed doors,

I pace the floor like a man on trial

for choices I made

and can’t take back.

And I hope—

wherever you are now—

you’ve forgiven me

for the days we sat in the ashes

instead of rising from them.

For all the talk of change

that never turned into action.

For chasing comfort

when we should’ve chased the cross.

I hope you don’t flinch

when you look back.

But if you do—

if you ever feel embarrassed

by the version of me writing this…

Don’t be.

I’m the one who stayed

when everything told me to quit.

I’m the one who breathed

through the heaviness.

Who kept the faith

when I couldn’t feel it.

Who handed you the pen

even when my own pages

were burning.

So if you ever make it—

write me back.

Tell me we made it.

Tell me it was worth it.

Tell me I didn’t waste

my only shot

trying to remember

how to start again.