A pen, worn and fading, had sat in the corner of a drawer for years. Once, it had written letters that changed lives, but now it was overlooked, its ink barely enough to fill a page.
One evening, a person, exhausted and defeated, sat at their desk. Life had taken everything from them. They reached for the pen, unsure if they could still find the strength to write.
The first words came slowly, almost painfully: “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” The pen trembled in their hand, its ink almost gone, but it didn’t stop. It kept moving, even when the person’s heart was heavy with doubt.
As the words spilled out—raw, messy, and imperfect—the pen didn’t judge. It simply helped them find their voice, helping them face their pain, their fear. The pen wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t the right tool for the job. But it was there when it mattered most, giving them the courage to write one more word.
That night, the person didn’t find all the answers, but they found the strength to keep going. And the pen, no longer forgotten, had helped them take the first step toward healing.
