There’s a hunger in the world now, not just for bread, but for meaning. A hunger not of the belly, but of the bones. A thirst nothing sweet can quench. No flag can feed it. No slogan can soothe it. And if you’ve felt it, that ache behind the ribs, that long pull in the chest, you are not alone.

The world we’ve inherited is wired, clever, and slick with answers. It can mimic beauty. It can parrot truth. It can fake kindness with the grin of a fox. But it cannot bleed for you. It cannot carry your name in its breath. It cannot love with scars.

What we’re living through is not mere culture shift, it is soul drift.

The words we were given—mother, father, son, daughter—once thick as old oaks, now float like thistledown. Their roots have been hacked at. They drift loose in the wind of self-invention. The old ground has been traded for mirrors and wires. And while pundits clap and parliaments cheer, real sons and daughters are caught in the riptide. Told they must choose between truth and love. When in Christ, those two were never meant to be torn apart.

This is not about hate. It is not about picking fights or planting flags.

It’s about hunger. It’s about the longing that lives under the ribs. It’s about the want for belonging, for blessing, for a name spoken with warmth.

So let’s speak plainly.

You are not your wounds.

You are not a political symbol. You are not your shame, your pride, your confusion, your hashtags.

You are not the masks you've worn to feel safe. You are not the lies you’ve told yourself to feel whole.

You are a soul.

A living, aching, wondrous soul, woven by the hands of a God who doesn’t lie, doesn’t mock, doesn’t abandon.