Carolyn Crichton 
whispersat2am.substack.com

Today I write
about being looked after.

Not in the way I was taught,
not by prayers or promises.
I once believed.
Those beliefs unraveled slowly,
and with them,
a kind of comfort.

Still, something lingers,
a sense that the world notices me,
gently,
sometimes saying yes
before I even think to ask.

An umbrella offered in the rain.
A problem solved
before it had a name.
A door opening
without my touch.

I wonder if it is fate, though some call it luck.
A collaborator once told me
to stop saying that word,
that I am here because I work hard.

And I do.
But I work hard because
I know how rare it is
to be met with grace,
to be handed something kind
at the exact moment
it is needed.

I want to stay awake to it,
to keep saying thank you
in how I move forward,
in how I live.

Maybe this is what it means
to be looked after:
not perfection,
not ease,
but noticing when life offers you grace,
like an everyday miracle,
and answering yes
with both hands open.