This is for anyone who has ever gotten mad at God.

For anyone who has sat in a hospital parking lot and shouted into silence.

For anyone who has buried a parent and still finds themselves reaching for them in the dark.

You don’t have to whisper your grief.

You don’t have to tidy your prayers.

some things are unfinished…

Unfinished

After my mom passed,
a parade of well-meaning people
lined up at the edge of my grief
to hand me clichés wrapped in concern.

They said,
​“That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair.”

And I wanted to scream.
Not because they were wrong
but because they were too right
in all the wrong ways.

See, I’m not calling life

unfair anymore.
Because if I do,
I have to call all of it unfair.
The good too.

Like,
was it fair
that I was born when I was,
to the parents I had?

To a mother who built a universe
out of second chances,

finding joy,

and quiet strength?

Was it fair that I got
birthday parties with balloons
while my mother
lost both of her parents

before the age of 21,
before she ever got to finish being a kid,

already packing school lunches that weren’t hers.

Is it fair
that she grew up
learning how to survive
before she even learned how to live?

After my mom got sick,

everything I thought was steady
started shifting beneath my feet.

I didn’t say it out loud.
I was trying to listen for God.

But inside?
I wasn’t whispering polite prayers anymore.
I was spitting fire.

I was pacing hospital floors at 3AM,
cussing into my pillow,
slamming my fists into the steering wheel,
daring God to answer me:

“Why her?”
“Why now?”
“Why like this?”

“Is this what I get for being faithful?”

The silence didn’t soothe.
It seared.
Yet still,
I couldn’t call it unfair.

Because fairness doesn’t show up
just because we want answers.
Fairness doesn’t wear name tags
or knock politely.

And just because I don’t understand God
doesn’t mean He isn’t fair.

It might just mean
His idea of justice
doesn’t look like mine.

Maybe He’s playing a symphony
I don’t have the ears for yet.

So no,

I won’t call life unfair.
I’ll just call it
unfinished.

And trust
that someday,
when the silence sounds like music,
I’ll understand
the rest of the song.