At night, when exhaustion finally settled into her bones and the quiet of her room wrapped around her like a soft blanket, Lily prayed.
Not for trophies.
Not for recognition or praise.
Not for the admiration she sometimes craved but rarely received.
She prayed for something far simpler, yet far more difficult to achieve: peace.
She asked for the strength to forgive those who had hurt her, intentionally or not, for people who never said sorry, for those who had let assumptions and silence drive wedges between them. She asked for patience—the kind that could hold her steady through days when her effort seemed invisible, when her presence felt unnoticed, when she wondered if all her struggle had been in vain.
Faith did not erase her pain. It did not magically fill the emptiness or make rejection disappear. But it softened the edges, like water slowly wearing down stone. It reminded her that effort had meaning even when unseen, that quiet perseverance had value even without applause, and that not every struggle needed witnesses.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, Lily began to understand something important: silence was not always emptiness. Sometimes, it was a space for gathering strength. Sometimes, it was a moment for preparation, for the mind to settle and the heart to heal. Sometimes, it was the only way to hear the faint, steady voice inside herself, telling her to keep moving forward, one step, one breath, one quiet effort at a time.
In those hours, she realized that her prayers were not for others—they were for her own courage. They were a quiet affirmation that, even when the world looked away, she could remain steadfast, she could remain whole, and she could continue to grow.