Life is a book written in water—fluid, fleeting, impossible to pin down. We hold the pen, yes, but the ink seems to flow with a will of its own, spilling across pages we didn’t know existed. And when the chapters shift—when a door closes, a love fades, or a path crumbles beneath our feet—we ask ourselves, Does we know it’s for the better? Or are we merely whispering, “No, it’s for the better,” to calm the storms that churn within?
Change feels like winter arriving uninvited, frost biting at the edges of what once bloomed. A friendship slips away like sand through a loose fist. A job becomes a house with shutters closed tight against your light. A love we built on the promises of forever crumbles like a castle too close to the tide. We stand there, breath caught, hearts heavy, wondering if the breaking has meaning. Is this destruction, or is it the soil turning, making way for seeds unseen?
Life, some say, is a sculptor with rough hands. It chisels away at what no longer serves us, even as we cry out, clinging to the marble it chips away. But here’s the thing about sculptors: they never show you the finished piece until they’re done. The dust flies, the hammer strikes, and all we can do is hope that what’s left behind will be something beautiful.
Do we know it’s for the better? Or do we simply plant the idea in our hearts like a candle on a windowsill, hoping it will guide us through the long night? Perhaps that’s all we can do. To insist that pain has purpose is to drape a quilt over the sharp edges of reality—a soft layer of hope to warm us as we heal.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s not about knowing at all. Rivers don’t stop to ask where they’re going. They rush forward, carving their way through stone, finding a path not because they see it, but because they trust it exists. Maybe we are rivers too, flowing forward because standing still isn’t an option.
So, does we know it’s for the better? The truth is a whispered maybe, a quiet promise that we don’t need certainty to move forward. Instead, we gather the fragments of ourselves, hold them to the light, and imagine something new—a mosaic born of broken pieces.
And one day, perhaps without noticing, we’ll look around and realize we’ve become something stronger, softer, braver. The river will have led us to a place we didn’t expect but desperately needed. And maybe then we’ll smile and say, Yes. It was for the better all along.
