🌿 Soul Journal Entry: The Shape of a Prayer

There are moments when the world feels too heavy to hold. When language fails, and all you have left is breath. In those moments, prayer is not a sentence—it’s a surrender.

Prayer is not always spoken. Sometimes it’s a hand on your heart. A candle lit in silence. A tear that falls without shame. Sometimes it’s how you whisper “please” to no one in particular, and somehow feel heard.

I used to think prayer was something I had to earn. Something lofty, poetic, reserved for temples and saints. But now I know: prayer is the soul’s native tongue. It rises from longing, gratitude, and the ache to be held.

When I pray, I’m not asking for just miracles—I’m remembering them. I’m aligning with the rhythm of something older than fear. I’m letting my body become a vessel for light, even when it trembles.

Prayer helps because it connects. It roots me in the soil of my own truth. It reminds me that I am not alone. That the Divine is not distant, but curled inside every breath I take.

Last night, I prayed so hard. I lit a white candle. I spoke not with eloquence, but with honesty. And I felt it—the shift. The presence. The quiet yes.

Prayer doesn’t fix everything. But it holds everything. It turns chaos into communion. It turns survival into sacredness.

So if you’re reading this, and you feel lost—pray. Not because you know how, but because your soul already does. Let your breath be the offering. Let your longing be the altar. 

You are heard. You are held. You are holy.

🕯️🕊️ Amen