Change, Actually

Change doesn’t knock.
It breaks in through the back door,
Wearing my old sweatshirt,
Laughing like we’re friends again.
Like we ever stopped.

It starts small.
Like keys in the wrong pocket
Or being called the right name at Starbucks
It’s the hairline crack in a favorite mug
You swear wasn’t there last month.
Or maybe it was.
Maybe you’ve been sipping from the edge of goodbye
For longer than you knew.

It’s quiet at first
A shift in your laugh,
The way joy lingers a little less long,
How “I’m fine” starts tasting
Like stale gum you keep chewing
Because it’s rude to spit out something that used to be so sweet.

And then—
Then it’s loud.
Like loss.
Like the silence after a door slams
That never opens again.
Like your father’s name on a stone.
Like your friend’s voice only living
In voicemail now.
And you still haven’t deleted it.
You never will.
He says “Hey, it’s me,”
And for a moment,
It is.

But change isn’t just grief.
It’s also grace.
It’s cutting your hair short on a Tuesday
Because Monday broke your heart.
It’s learning to love your stretch marks
Like they’re constellations
Mapping the body you survived in.

It’s crying in a Chick-fil-a drive through
Because the cashier asked how your day’s been
And for once—
You told the truth.

Change is that, too.
The unraveling and the rethreading.
The gutting and the glitter.
The heartbreak and the half-price mochi
You eat in the parking lot
Like communion.
Like confession.
Like “God, I’m still here.”

Change is love showing up
Wearing a new face
You almost didn’t recognize
Because you were still looking for the old one.

It is honest.
It is hungry.
It is holy.
It is hell.

But it is yours.

And when you hold it
Gently,
Like a shaking hand in the dark
You realize:

You’ve changed, too.
And maybe that’s the point.