There wasn’t a big turning point.

No bolt of insight.

No perfect sermon.

No one came looking.

But something in me started to hunger again.

Not for applause.

Not even for answers.

Just… for God.

And for something that felt like me.

It came in fragments.

A sentence in a book I never finished.

The sound of rain while my hands were in the sink.

A memory—my fingers tracing lines on a page.

A melody hummed while folding laundry.

The smell of cinnamon rising in a quiet kitchen.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t even clear.

Just a whisper:

What if you didn’t need to prove anything?

What if you could come back?

I didn’t trust it at first.

Hope felt too dangerous.

Too much.

I wasn’t ready.

But the question stayed.

It didn’t demand anything.

It just waited.

And one day, I picked up a pencil.

Not to make something useful.

Not to be good.

Just to consider beginning.

And something opened.