Almost Praise

 

Almost Praise

We've all heard that tone of voice,

the sugar‑coated sting,

The compliment that limps in

carrying a hidden rolling pin.

You toss it out like it’s harmless,

like you’re gifting me something

I should hug with gratitude.

But I hear the crack in it,

The quiet insult lying just beneath the smile.

Funny how you call it “just being honest,”

as if your opinion were a light

I’m supposed to walk toward.

I never asked for your light.

I wasn’t standing in the dark.

Still, you tilt your head,

deliver your masterpiece,

half praise, half poison,

and wait for me to swallow it whole,

And thank you for it.

I stay silent.

Not because it didn’t land,

But because silence is the only shield

That doesn’t escalate the war.

But silence doesn’t mean untouched.

It means I’m carrying the weight

That you pretended wasn’t there.

These are the wounds nobody sees,

the ones shaped like kindness,

the ones that bruise without breaking skin.

Damage done in daylight,

with a smile,

with a tone so soft

It almost sounds like care.

Almost.

I'm Done Being the Fixer

 

I'm Done Being the Fixer

I’ve stopped trying to fix what I didn’t break.  

There’s a welcome kind of freedom in that, 

the moment you finally unclench your grip

from the wreckage everyone swears you caused.

I’ve spent years picking through pieces

that were scattered long before I arrived,

trying to fit them back together

like some unpaid fixer of other people’s storms.

Friendships, ministry, family,

the urgent emergencies in other people’s lives, 

I kept showing up with glue and hope,

thinking maybe this time I could make it whole.

But I’m tired in a way that sleep doesn’t touch.

I’m scraped thin from apologizing for fires

I didn’t start,

from carrying guilt that never belonged to me.

There’s no redemption in bleeding for someone else’s chaos,

no miracle in rebuilding what was never mine to save.

So I’m laying down the tools.

I’m stepping back from the ruins.

Let the pieces stay where they fell.

Let the blame echo somewhere else.

I’m old, exhausted, and I’m all out of guilt 

and maybe that’s the first real healing

I’ve ever given myself.