The Same, Separated by Time
They were the same. Just separated by time.
Two women, two different eras, one connection that shook the spirit. One carried decades of stories in her bones. The other still had dust on her shoes from the uphill climb. They met not by accident but by divine timing.
The older one, raised with comfort, had all the doors open but chose the path that built calluses on her soul. The younger, raised on grit and grace, had to claw at every locked door, often never making it inside. Yet both of them had something rare. Fire.
The elder had learned to live through seasons of silence, noise, applause, and solitude. She had seen how easy it was to shrink in a world that expects you to be loud for all the wrong reasons. The younger was just learning to believe she deserved to take up space at all.
Their meeting wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t staged. It was a movement. A moment heaven wrote long before either of them knew their own names.
The older saw herself in that younger woman. Her courage buried under years of being told no. And the younger saw her future in the older. Proof that beauty, power, and peace could coexist in one woman who refused to bow to the world’s timeline.
They talked in color. Each of them painting in shades the other needed. The younger’s palette was bold, messy, full of fight. The older’s was deep, refined, soulful. Together, their colors blended into something sacred. You don’t think you can, the older whispered, but I already know you will. It wasn’t about upbringing. It wasn’t about struggle. It was the gift. The one thing they both carried that the world couldn’t touch.
They were the same. Just separated by generations.
But the older one’s song had stopped too soon. Mid-note. Unfinished. A melody left hanging in the air, echoing through the younger's chest. And now, the world is pressing in, crashing against her soul with rage. The pressure is relentless. The noise is loud. And though she may stumble in her walk of grace, she knows this fight isn’t hers. No one needs to teach her how to carry a legacy. She already is.
So she goes to the California tree. The place where memories live. The place where the gift still speaks. The place where prayers are safe. She kneels not in defeat, but in surrender to something bigger than her fear. Because she knows. Deep down. She came from the same fire. And the song isn’t over.
© 2025 Jenise Ehrhardt. All rights reserved.
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If this spoke to you, you're not alone. I write to honor legacy, navigate grief, and reflect on the quiet power we carry. You can read more at ExpressiveDeZien.com.