The Pen Is No Longer Mine

I once authored my own world. Now life holds the pen, and I live by pages I never chose.

Now the chapters arrive unannounced. Responsibilities replace possibilities, and choices narrow into obligations. I wake up inside sentences I didn’t draft, learning to read between lines written by loss, delay, and unanswered prayers. Yet even here, something remains mine.

I may not control the plot anymore, but I still choose how I read the story. With bitterness, or with grace. With resistance, or with endurance. And maybe that is the quiet truth adulthood teaches—when you stop being the author, you learn how to become faithful to the meaning.

Life may hold the pen, but I decide whether these pages break me, or shape me.