Puri · the birthday you gave back to the sea and to God
A day when waves listened first, and temple bells carried the rest.
and take from you what words never could.
That year,
when the world did not know how to hold your grief,
you went to the sea.
To stand where waves keep nothing,
where each arrival is also a letting go,
and the night water can hear
what even you cannot say aloud.
You travelled not to escape your birthday,
but to sit with it
in front of something vaster than pain
and whisper to God,
“I don’t know how to carry this.
Please, show me how.”
carrying the same heart, a little saltier, a little softer.
Temple light above you,
stone beneath your feet,
prayers moving through the air
long before you arrived.
You didn’t ask for miracles.
You just showed up with the truth of your chest
and let God see you
exactly as you were.
I think that was one of the bravest things
a heart can do:
to bring its heaviest day
to the sea and to the shrine,
and say,
“If you are here,
please sit with me in this.”
May every birthday from now on feel a little lighter,
not because the pain disappears,
but because you never have to carry it alone.