how the soul spells itself

i’ve recently come to understand something
that both comforts and unsettles me—
that perhaps we are not meant to be good at everything.
and maybe, that’s not a flaw in our design,
but a quiet kind of grace.
maybe it's God's way of keeping us from being everything to everyone,
so we can become something specific—
something true.

they say we’re given gifts,
though not always the kind that are loud or obvious,
not the kind that earn applause in a room full of people.
sometimes, they arrive in silence.
sometimes they show up as the thing you thought everyone else could do too,
until someone stops and tells you,
not everyone can do what you just did.

yesterday, we were asked to write thank-you letters
to the donors who made our summer camp possible.
i wrote mine without trying to impress—
just wrote what felt honest,
what felt real.
and when i handed it in, they said something that stayed with me.

they told me my handwriting was beautiful,
but more than that,
they said my words held weight.
not because they were complicated,
but because they carried something deeper.
they said my words felt like they came from a place
most people haven’t learned to name yet.

they remembered other things too:
the eulogy i gave for my grandfather,
the testimony i shared as a junior staff member.
they said there’s something in the way i speak and write,
something in the way i turn feeling into language,
pain into rhythm,
grief into something sacred.

maybe… maybe this is my gift.
not to solve equations or lead crowds,
not to build things with my hands,
but to be the one who builds bridges—
between the heart and the mouth,
between a feeling and its first breath.

maybe i was given this
to help others find themselves
in the places they didn’t know they were hiding.
to write not with complexity,
but with clarity so honest it becomes hard to face.

not everyone will understand that kind of gift.
some won’t even notice it.
but i’m beginning to.
i’m beginning to see that maybe the words i write
are not just mine.
maybe they’re echoes
of what others have always felt
but never knew how to say.

and maybe—just maybe—
this is how the soul spells itself.
not in noise.
not in brilliance.
but in the quiet unfolding of something
finally being seen.
the kind of seeing that doesn’t demand attention,
but simply waits for recognition,
like the dawn waits to be noticed by the earth.

perhaps we are not meant to do everything.
maybe we’re meant to do one thing with such depth,
such truth,
that when we do it, we leave behind a trail
of people who feel something they couldn't name before.
and maybe, just maybe,
that's enough.