RICH IN DREAMS BUT POOR IN PEACE🤍!

NEW BEGINNINGS

Alisha’s healing didn’t begin with Pablo. It began on her knees beside her bed, whispering a desperate prayer for peace she wasn’t even sure existed. She had just returned from a deliverance service her friend Khloe insisted she attend. The pastor, with piercing eyes, had said, “You’re battling confusion, heartbreak, and delay. There is a spiritual husband.” The words hit her chest like thunder. They weren’t generic. They were personal. Something inside her broke. Quietly. Like a thread snapping in the silence. The next morning, she started a 30-day fast. No drama. No exes. No distractions. No scrolling through old photos or replying to people who only knew how to take. Just her, her tear-stained journal, and God. She rose before sunrise to pray, even when her body ached and her eyes still burned from crying the night before. She journaled in blue ink, soaking verses into her heart. Attended every midweek and Sunday service even when she felt like an outsider in the pews. She wasn’t seeking a miracle ,she was desperate for peace. Healing wasn’t glamorous. It was gritty. Private. Lonely. Sacred. But the weight she carried began to lift. Her laugh returned, hesitant but real. Her tears flowed less often.

And in the final week of her fast, she wandered into a small Bible study group, still wearing heaviness like a second skin. She didn’t expect anything. She sat at the back. Hoodie over her braids. Eyes downcast. The group was discussing the Book of James. A soft-spoken guy beside her leaned in gently and asked, “What do you think James meant by faith without works?” She barely looked up. “I guess it means you can believe in something, but you still have to act like it matters.” He smiled. “Exactly.” That was Pablo.

He didn’t ask for her number. Didn’t follow her on i********: or look for her on f*******:. He just kept showing up. To Bible study. To church services.To her grandfather’s yard with guava juice and soft greetings. He asked about her dreams before her day. He saw her before he pursued her. One night, after she led prayer, he quietly said, “You’re healing. And it’s beautiful to watch.” Alisha almost asked him to stop. Not because it wasn’t true ,but because every time he said something like that, a part of her cracked open. A lump formed in her throat. A fear surfaced she couldn’t name. What if she wasn’t as healed as he believed? What if she let him down? But Pablo never treated her like a project. He offered love as a place to rest, not a reward for perfection. One evening, after back-to-back lectures and a draining study session, Alisha came home and sat on the edge of the couch in silence. Pablo walked in, saw her posture, and didn’t ask what was wrong. He just sat beside her and gently reached for her hand. She broke. Softly. Without words. Just tears streaming as she leaned into his shoulder. “You’re not too much,” he whispered. “And you don’t have to carry everything in silence.” Healing had never looked like that before. It had always looked like isolation, like pretending, like smiling through pain. Like being strong alone. Like hiding tears in public bathrooms.

But now? Healing looked like being held. Like softness without apology. Like letting someone in. They got married in the middle of final-year chaos. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was sacred. A white tent in her grandfather’s yard. A borrowed sound system. Khloe crying too loud. Sophia fixing her veil with trembling hands. Pablo standing at the altar like he couldn’t believe she was real. Alisha wore satin and nervous joy. She walked down the aisle holding her grandfather’s hand ,the man who held her sky when it threatened to fall. Their vows weren’t rehearsed. They were real. “I prayed for someone who wouldn’t run when I broke,” she said. “And God sent me you.” Pablo replied, “I don’t want perfect. I want truth. I want storm and sunshine. I want all of you.” When the pastor said, “You may kiss your bride,” he kissed her hand first.

Then her forehead.

Then her lips. She became Mrs. Eddie. She was still in law school. Still pulling all-nighters wrapped in his hoodie. Still walking through campus with coffee in one hand and case briefs in the other. Girls whispered. “Isn’t she the one who got married?” “She’s different now. Glowing.” They didn’t know it wasn’t luck. It was surrender. Choosing stillness. Saying no to counterfeit love when her heart still ached for it. It was choosing prayer over chaos. Her grandfather her sky holder kept her grounded. When she wanted to quit, he said, “Your name is already on that program, baby girl.” When she cried in frustration, he reminded her, “Even the sky rests on something. Let me be that for you.” And she held on. On graduation day, the skies wept softly. Not a storm, just a gentle drizzle. Her cap didn’t fit right. Her gown needed fixing. Pablo stood behind her, adjusting it carefully. “You ready, Mrs. Eddie?” he whispered. She laughed. “Still sounds weird.” He kissed her temple. “Get used to it. You earned this.” The dean called her name with distinction. She walked the stage with shaky steps but unwavering heart. Sophia screamed. Pablo whistled. Her grandfather’s eyes glistened. She sat down, tears quietly falling. Not for the degree. But for the girl who made it whole. Three months later, a firm called. The job wasn’t glamorous. But it was aligned. Public interest law. Advocacy. Purpose. She called Pablo, barely able to breathe. “I got the job,” she whispered. He went silent. Then said, “My God, you did it again.”

When she got home, there were flowers. A handwritten card: To the girl who thought silence was strength. To the woman who found her voice and built a life with it. You were never too broken. Just waiting for your time. Now, she wakes up with purpose. There are still days when doubt creeps in. But healing isn’t the absence of pain. It’s the presence of safety.

And Pablo? He’s still there. Making pancakes. Singing off-key. Rubbing her back after long reviews. Holding her when she needs it most. She no longer tries to prove her strength. She just lives it. She no longer begs to be chosen. She speaks with clarity. Loves freely. Walks in peace. Because she was never asking for too much. She was just asking the wrong people. Now her life is quiet in all the ways that matter. But her soul? Her soul sings. It wasn’t always love and light. Sometimes the past still whispers. Sometimes the wounds reopen. Sometimes the chaos she escaped comes back knocking. The heartbreak that came before Pablo shaped her the betrayals, the baby mama drama, the nights she mistook pain for passion. But it was deeper than that. It was the trauma of being r***d and silenced. The betrayal of friends who once laughed with her but later sold her iPhone like she was disposable. It was the confusion she felt when she found herself emotionally drawn to another girl and questioned her own identity. It was the mother who chose survival over motherhood, and a grandmother who cursed instead of covered. A father who ghosted her existence alive, but never present. It was the DJ who once held her at 4am and made her feel like maybe, just maybe, she was enough, until he became a ghost too. It was all of it. The silence. The pretending. The strength she had to fake when she was just a child trying to survive in a storm no one saw. Because healing doesn’t erase the past. It teaches you how to live beyond it.