The moment I saw, I knew.
The love was immense—so vast, so undeniable that I could feel it pressing against every cell of my being. It should have been the easiest thing in the world to surrender. And yet, it wasn’t. It took months.
Not because the knowing was incomplete, but because something deep within me—the part of me that had spent a lifetime constructing itself—had to wrestle, had to question, had to resist. Not out of defiance, but out of habit.
Self-righteous cynicism rose within me like a well-rehearsed script, automatic and insistent. It was embarrassing to witness in myself. Here I was, standing before something so vast, so infinite, and yet my mind still clung to its little authority, still wanted to argue, still wanted to analyze and measure and make sense of what could never be grasped in that way.
But I didn’t push it away. I didn’t suppress it. I let it have its say. I allowed the resistance to play out, to voice its doubts, to question, to fight its battle. Because I knew that forcing surrender would not be true surrender. I had to let it unfold in its own time.
Perhaps that is why, when the surrender finally came, it was so whole. Because nothing was bypassed. Nothing was silenced. Even my resistance was given its space to burn itself out.
And then one day, without warning, I woke up, and all was quiet.
The war within had ceased—not because I had won, but because I had simply stopped fighting. The cynicism had exhausted itself. The doubt had nothing left to cling to. The need for control had dissolved into irrelevance.
And in that silence, there was only love. The same love that had been there from the beginning. The same love that had been patiently waiting for me to stop fighting myself.
There was no grand revelation, no triumphant moment of victory—just a calm presence, a wholeness that needed no adjectives.
I was at the doorway.
And I stepped through.