Beneath Shifting Skies

Some moments come cloaked in stillness, carrying questions we didn’t know we were ready to ask. At 3:29 a.m., beneath September’s moon, I found myself in that kind of pause—where the air is hushed, the stars are scattered, and the night holds you as though it has always known your name.

I thought of the past two years, how many times I’ve had to uproot, redirect, and release plans I once held tightly. What felt like disruption has slowly revealed itself as guidance. Change is not a cycle that circles back to the same place—it is a passage, a quiet arc that carries us forward, whether we resist or surrender.

In those quiet hours, I realized how much I’ve learned, not just about the world around me but about myself. To know oneself is to be willing to meet the discomfort of change, to look inward when life shifts outward, and to ask the harder questions without rushing the answers. It is to see that endings are not just closures, but thresholds.

The moon reminded me that home is not only found in walls or people—it is written in the sky above us. Wherever I go, when I lift my eyes, I am tethered. Grounded. Carried. That truth softens the unknown, turning fear into awe, and uncertainty into possibility.

So I stood there, bathed in quiet light, grateful for the unraveling as much as for the becoming. And I whispered thanks to the Creator, to the moon, and to the path that is still unfolding.

The Quiet Arc of Change

At three a.m., the moonlight sings,
of endings wrapped in newer things.
What feels uncertain, lost, estranged,
becomes the gift of being changed.

The sky reminds, with silver glow,
the self is more than what we know.
Through every turn, the truth is plain:
we lose, we learn, we rise again.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai