sol.ace_r

The days when we find ourselves thinking about miracles are rarely the days when life is going well.
Not when everything is in its proper place,
not when the future feels clear and reliable.
We think of miracles instead in moments when no words are easy to believe,
when even saying the word hope feels like something to be done with caution.

At first, the questions come like this.
What is a miracle, really?
Does such a thing even exist?
And if we’re honest, those questions eventually narrow down to a single sentence:
Am I still allowed to be alive?

We’ve long been taught to understand miracles as outcomes.
A situation turning around.
An illness being cured.
An event that makes everything finally make sense.
So when none of that happens, our days feel as if they exist outside the realm of miracles.
Days that repeat without change are left to us as nothing more than time to endure.

But miracles aren’t that far away.
They don’t flash, and they don’t announce their arrival.
Instead, they happen somewhere inside a person.

Being in the same pain as yesterday, and still getting through today.
Having no certainty about tomorrow, yet not fully giving up on today.
A moment where you can’t explain it, can’t justify it,
and somehow your breath continues one more time.
Those are the most realistic faces a miracle can have.

A miracle doesn’t change your life.
It doesn’t make you love life, either.
It simply keeps you from giving up on it.
At a place where choosing the end wouldn’t seem strange,
a miracle offers a single word—“not yet”—and postpones the day by just one more turn.

That’s why miracles don’t come at the peak of hope.
Not when prayers are most desperate,
not when effort has finally piled up enough.
They arrive instead when you’ve stopped expecting them,
at the point where you decided not to wish anymore.
At the threshold of giving up, when you couldn’t bring yourself to take that final step.

Often, we only recognize a miracle after it has already passed.
The night you thought you wouldn’t make it through, but somehow did.
The choice you believed meant nothing,
only to realize later it was what kept you alive.
Only then do we understand:
Ah. That was a miracle.

Miracles don’t make life understandable.
They don’t explain why these things happened to you,
or why it had to be this heavy.

So a miracle isn’t the disappearance of a wound,
but the ability to live tomorrow while carrying it.
Not turning your back on yourself in a place where no one is watching.
Not discarding who you are today.

A miracle doesn’t have to be big.
It doesn’t need to shine.
It doesn’t exist to be recognized.
It’s simply doing its part, quietly, so you can survive.

If you’ve made it this far,
that alone means you are someone who has already experienced miracles many times over.
Not knowing it doesn’t make them smaller,
and it doesn’t make you a failure.

Because miracles had already arrived
for the person who did not disappear in the end.