When You Believe in that Little Voice

It never shouts. It doesn’t pound the table or raise its hands to the ceiling. It speaks like wind nudging a loose leaf, whispering sideways when the road seems stitched shut. Sometimes, it’s the hush between your name and the echo. Other times, it’s thunder disguised as a tremble— that pause before you say yes to something terrifying and right. It doesn't argue. It waits while you weigh silence against noise, while you measure the unknown like a fragile thing in your palm. It keeps breathing beside you, soft-footed, patient. And when you finally listen— when the world tilts just enough for doubt to lose its grip— you find your feet already moving. Not because you know where the road ends, but because something quiet inside you has always known where to begin.