Make It Make Sense

I’ve always wanted to make sense of things. Of life. Of pain. Of all the ways things fall apart or don’t go the way we planned. Understanding has always felt like a kind of safety to me — like if I can name it, then maybe I can survive it. If I have to walk through something dark, then please, let there be some meaning in it. Let it not be for nothing.

My thirties were full of that kind of searching — a decade of wrestling. I was constantly trying to make sense of everything I couldn’t control, trying to find meaning in the chaos, trying to gather up all the pieces and form something coherent. And honestly, I don’t think that was wrong. I think it helped me endure. It helped me stay connected to purpose when everything around me felt uncertain.

But I’ve come to learn there’s a place beyond the wrestling. A quieter place called surrender.

And surrender isn’t the same as giving up. It’s not apathy or resignation. It’s a deep exhale into trust — into Love so vast and steady that I can finally believe that everything that has come to me, even the most painful things, have come bearing gifts.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It does. Life hurts. Loss hurts. Limits hurt.

I bump into my limitations every single day — and sometimes, painfully, so do the people I love. That’s hard to admit. I don’t want to hurt people. I don’t want to be someone who reacts out of fear or lives on autopilot, defaulting to fight, flight, or freeze. But I do. I still do. And when I do, I hit walls — walls I didn’t build on purpose, but walls all the same.

Some limits are shared — we all get the same 24 hours. But others are unique. You might have more energy than me. I might lack a skill you’ve mastered. We’re all limited. And still, we can grow. I want to keep growing until the day I die. Not because I believe I’ll ever become limitless — but because growth matters to me. Because Love matters to me. And maybe growth isn’t about overcoming all our limitations, but about learning how to hold them — in ourselves and in others — with more compassion, more tenderness.

We are all trying, in our own ways, to live this life the best we can. And we’re all failing at love sometimes. Some of us are failing a lot. But if I were living inside someone else’s story, carrying their wounds, shaped by their limitations … I’d probably be doing the exact same thing they are.

We can only love to the extent that we’re able to see — and real sight, the kind that changes us, only comes through openness. For some, opening feels impossible. But the beautiful, miraculous truth is that the impossible happens all the time. Hearts open. Light breaks in. People change.

And so we cling to hope — not blind hope, but the kind forged through surrender, through presence, through trust in a Love that’s always working — even here. Even now.