When There Is No Capacity for Words

This week, I don’t have the capacity for words.
Only for breath.

Life feels a bit like that sometimes. Not dramatic. Not eloquent.
Just… full.
Full enough that explanations feel like too much.

I’ve been sitting with the idea that in Hebrew, the word for love — ahavah — is made of very soft sounds. Open sounds. Breath sounds. When you say it slowly, it almost feels like breathing in and out rather than saying something definite.

And I’ve heard something similar said about God’s name — Yhwh — that it was never meant to be spoken as a neat word, but to be held with reverence. Breathed rather than pronounced.

I don’t know enough Hebrew to make big claims.
But I do know what it feels like to have days where words run out, and breath is all that’s left.

Caring. Waiting. Sitting beside someone.
Moments where love isn’t something you say or explain.
It’s something you keep doing quietly.
In.
Out.

Love doesn’t always speak — sometimes it breathes.

There are times when prayer looks like sentences.
And times when prayer looks like staying present in your own body.
Not fixing. Not framing. Just breathing.

Maybe love is like that, too.

Not always grand or expressive.
Sometimes simply the decision not to stop breathing.
Not to leave.
Not to turn away.

If this week you don’t have words either, you’re not failing.
You may just be in a season where breath is enough.

And perhaps, quietly, that is love.