Enough, I Hope

Last day of the school year.

I find myself standing outside this building where my stories quietly unfold - stories that rarely make it to the stage, that are never applauded, that are often carried in whispers and in trust.

I am not a classroom teacher. I do not stand in front of rows of students each day, do not call names from a list, do not watch the slow, visible unfolding of lessons learned over time. My work exists in smaller spaces, in fleeting moments, in conversations that begin with hesitation and end, sometimes, in silence… or relief.

And yet, within these walls, lives have brushed against mine in ways that are no less real.

There were those who came knocking, unsure if they even wanted to enter.

Those who sat across from me, holding back tears - or unable to hold them back at all.

Those who spoke in fragments, in pauses, in long stretches of quiet that said more than words ever could.

And even those who came with nothing in particular to say, except the need to not feel alone.

For each of them, I was given a glimpse - a small window into battles unseen, burdens unspoken, and hearts trying their best to endure.

I did not have all the answers. Most days, I knew I didn’t.

But I stayed. I listened. I held space.

And sometimes, that is all we are ever really called to do.

As the school year ends and the noise of celebration fills the air, I return to the quiet of this place with a different kind of gratitude. Not for recognition, nor for numbers or visible outcomes - but for the trust given, however brief. For the courage it took for someone to walk through that door.

To the few souls who found their way to me - I carry your stories with care, even as I let you go.

And tonight, I sit with a simple prayer:

That in my own small way, I was able to help carry something for you - even just for a little while.

And that somehow, in the unseen and the unmeasured, that was enough.