Gratitude isn’t a prayer or a posture.
It’s a scar that still throbs when the weather turns—
a reminder you’re somehow still here
while the world keeps finding new ways
to set itself on fire.
It’s outliving a son
and carrying his brilliance like contraband
through a year that tested everyone’s faith
in everything.
It’s knowing the gods are broke,
the politicians are puppets,
the prophets are running side hustles,
and the news is just a fear carousel
you didn’t buy a ticket for.
Gratitude doesn’t live there.
It lives in the cracked places:
the dog who curls against you
like she’s guarding what’s left,
the laugh you didn’t think you had in you,
the friend who calls before the collapse,
the night that lets you pass without a toll.
It lives in the chaos we survived
and the beauty that somehow survived us.
Keep it small.
Keep it sharp.
Pocket-sized and battle-ready—
your own stitched-together compass
for a world that keeps losing north.
Remember:
you’ve been broken open,
but you’re still walking.
You’re still dangerous.
You’re still here.
Mccarthy AKA FATHER SICARIO
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