The Glow That God Lit

“Are you there, God?”

The words were barely a whisper, escaping Anaya’s trembling lips like steam off a cup left too long in the cold. She sat on the bathroom floor, knees tucked to her chest, her back pressed against the base of the tub. The lavender candle beside her flickered gently, casting golden shadows across the chipped tile walls and her tear-streaked face.

She wasn’t sure why she said it out loud. Maybe because silence had become too heavy. Or maybe because she just couldn’t hold it in anymore.

The world outside that door was too loud—always demanding, always moving. But in here, there was a stillness. And in that stillness, she needed to believe someone bigger than her was listening.

It had been three weeks since she lost her job. Two since her best friend stopped texting back. And it had been years—too many to count—since she’d felt like her prayers had gone further than the ceiling. But tonight, the weight inside her chest wasn’t just about bills or broken friendships.

It was about the way she no longer recognized the girl in the mirror.

Her name was Anaya Simone Bell, and once upon a time, she had been vibrant—so full of light she could’ve lit a city block. People used to say she had “that glow,” like joy had chosen her skin as its permanent address.

But the glow had dimmed. Life dimmed it. Grief dimmed it. The lies she told herself about not being enough dimmed it.

She didn’t even realize how long she had been dimming herself just to survive.

Anaya had always been the strong one. The one who smiled through funerals and forgave first. The one who texted everyone “just checking in 💛” even when nobody ever checked on her. The healer. The “got it together” girl.

But she didn’t have it together.

Not anymore.

She didn’t even have groceries.

She sniffled, wiping her nose with her hoodie sleeve. The candle’s flame danced in the dim light like it could hear her thoughts. And maybe it could. Maybe everything could. Maybe even God.

She remembered her grandma—Mama Lu—used to say, “God speaks best when you finally get quiet enough to listen.”

Anaya hadn’t been quiet. She’d been distracted. Overstimulated. Running on autopilot, performing wellness for the ‘gram while falling apart in private. She hadn’t truly listened for God in a long time. And worse, she hadn’t believed she was worthy of being heard.

“I’m tired,” she said aloud. Her voice cracked like a floorboard under pressure.

“I’m so tired, God. I can’t keep pretending like I’m okay. Like I’m strong. I’m not. Not tonight. I don’t need a sign. I just need to know you still hear me.”

There was silence.

Then—something.

Not a booming voice or flashing light. But a breeze.

A soft one. The kind that sneaks through cracked windows and carries secrets. It brushed against her skin gently, like a hug. And for a split second, she smelled jasmine. Mama Lu’s scent.

Her grandma had passed three years ago, but she used to anoint Anaya’s forehead with jasmine oil and say, “You are a light, baby. And even when you’re covered in darkness, your shine never leaves you. It’s just waiting on you to come back.”

Anaya opened her eyes.

The breeze faded. The candle flickered again. Her chest felt… lighter. Not fixed. Not whole. But open.

“You always show up quiet,” she whispered. “But you show up.”

She pulled herself up slowly, her limbs stiff from sitting on the cold tile for so long. Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror—eyes puffy, curls frizzy, hoodie stained with yesterday’s tears.

But underneath all that… she saw something else.

She saw someone still standing. Still breathing. Still here.

“I’m trying,” she told the girl in the mirror. “I’m still trying.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, that felt like enough.

Later that night, curled up in bed under the same blanket she used as a kid, Anaya let her mind wander through memories.

There was the day she graduated—first in her family with a degree. Her mama cried. Her aunties shouted. But the most vivid part was Mama Lu whispering, “You’re chosen, sugar. But chosen don’t mean easy. It means necessary.”

Then came the memory of her first heartbreak—the man who promised forever but couldn’t even keep a Thursday. She remembered crying so hard she thought her ribs would shatter. But somehow, she healed. Slowly. Silently. Like a tree regrowing roots.

And now—this moment.

This rock bottom.

Maybe it wasn’t punishment. Maybe it was permission.

To let go. To rebuild. To become.

The next morning, Anaya lit the candle again. Not because she needed answers, but because she needed presence. She sat with her journal and wrote:

“Dear God, I don’t know where I’m going. But thank you for reminding me I’m not going alone.”

That afternoon, she did something brave: she reached out.

To her cousin she hadn’t talked to in months.

To a therapist her jobless insurance finally approved.

To the local food pantry that didn’t judge.

She even texted her mama, even though they hadn’t spoken since the “I told you so” fight. Just a simple:

“Hey ma… I’m trying again. Just thought you should know.”

The healing wasn’t instant.

Some days, she still cried brushing her teeth. Some days, she missed the version of herself that believed love was simple. Some days, she scrolled past her old coworkers’ promotions and felt like a failure.

But something had changed.

She had changed.

She wasn’t numbing anymore. She was present.

And presence, as it turned out, was the first step to peace.

One week later, she went back to the bathroom. Same candle. Same corner.

But this time, her prayer was different.

“Are you there, God?”

“Yes. I know you are. I just needed to remind myself.”

She exhaled. A deep one. The kind that comes from the soul.

And somewhere deep in that in-between space between broken and healed, a voice echoed. Not loud. But real.

“I never left.”

The glow didn’t return all at once.

It came in pieces.

In the way she danced while cooking rice and peas.

In the soft gospel hum that found its way into her shower.

In the long walks with no destination.

In the laugh she didn’t fake.

She wasn’t glowing for others anymore.

She was glowing because she survived what tried to break her.

Because even in the dark, her soul remembered the light.

Because God never left.

And now? Neither would she.