☕ Coffee and Quiet with Derek Wolf
You Gotta Believe in Something
The kitchen light glows softly in the early morning. The room holds that quiet before sunrise when nothing has yet claimed the day. A mug rests between two hands, warm enough to calm the fingers still trembling from a night of unsettled sleep. The window over the sink reflects only darkness. It feels as if the whole world is inhaling, waiting to see which direction the day will move.
A sentence lingers from a conversation the evening before. You gotta believe in something. It was offered with good intentions, spoken lightly, yet the words found their way into a deeper space. They touched an old memory that the body has never fully forgotten. A faint tightness sits beneath the ribs, subtle but persistent, as if the night has delivered a message that the heart is still interpreting.
The mug rises to the lips. Warmth enters the chest. Something inside softens. Even so, the sentence continues to echo. You gotta believe in something. The phrase carries its own weight this morning, more like a question than a reassurance.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
The woman steps outside onto the small porch behind the house. The air is cool and rich with the scent of damp earth. Crickets offer their last notes of the night. Far off in the trees, a single bird tries a tentative call. The world feels both fragile and steady at the same time.
A memory surfaces with unexpected clarity. A hospital corridor years ago, fluorescent lights humming overhead, the air sharp with antiseptic and fear. A person she loved deeply lay behind a closed door. The hours stretched with unbearable tension. Someone placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and repeated that same sentence. You gotta believe in something. The attempt at comfort felt overwhelming then. Belief could not change the outcome. The door opened. Life shifted. The breath inside her has never fully forgotten the tremor of that moment.
That memory returns now, not with pain but with truth. It reveals why the phrase unsettled her the night before. It carried echoes of a moment when belief felt too fragile for the weight of reality. The porch railing receives her hands as she leans forward, grounding herself in the cool morning air.
Belief requires something steady. Something that does not collapse when circumstances bend. Something that does not vanish when the world changes shape without warning. She looks across the yard toward the tree line. Thin strands of fog drift above the ground. Dawn slowly touches them with faint silver.
The body begins to relax, sensing the steadiness of the earth beneath bare feet. Shoulders lower. Breath steadies. The heart remembers another truth hidden inside that old memory. Even in that hospital corridor, something quiet stayed with her. Not a promise. Not a guarantee. A presence. A calm awareness that held her upright when the world spun off balance. A companioning that offered no explanation and no prediction, only steadiness.
That presence did not remove the grief. It held her through it. It did not offer reasons. It offered breath. It did not change the outcome. It helped her stay through the outcome. That presence has followed her into every season since then, often unnoticed, like a soft light behind her shoulder.
She steps off the porch and follows the narrow path toward the lake behind the property. Morning dew moistens the edges of her slippers. The sound of water grows clearer with each step. The lake carries a faint shimmer even before sunlight arrives. A few ducks drift across the surface with a calm acceptance of the day. Their simple trust in the water touches something in her chest.
The bench near the water welcomes her weight. The wood is cool and slightly uneven, but familiar. Hands rest on her lap. Breath slows in a rhythm that matches the gentle movement of the lake. The sentence from last night returns again. You gotta believe in something. This time it lands differently. Softer. More like a guidepost than a command.
The woman closes her eyes. Darkness meets her gently. In that darkness, the body reveals another layer of the truth. The mind has tried to believe in many things over the years. In plans that looked perfect until life rearranged them. In people who held her heart with care until their own storms pulled them away. In future visions that glowed brightly and then faded. None of these were wrong to trust. They were simply temporary. Belief needs something deeper than temporary things.
Within the quiet, something deeper rises. A soft vibration under the sternum. The same vibration that appears when a choice feels aligned even before words describe it. The same vibration that appears when a room feels safe the moment she enters. The same vibration that appears when a path feels true long before logic catches up.
This vibration has never betrayed her, even when circumstances hurt. It stayed through confusion, through heartbreak, through rebuilding. It stayed in the hospital corridor. It stayed the first time she realized she needed to begin again. It stayed each time she walked away from something that no longer supported her spirit. It is the one companion that has never asked her to fix anything before trusting it.
Her eyes open as sunlight spills across the edge of the lake. The surface reflects gold and soft blue, shifting with each ripple. The ducks continue their slow drift, unbothered by the growing light. The world feels honest here, stripped of the noise that complicates belief.
Belief, she realizes, is not about certainty. It is about relationship. A relationship with the presence that lives inside her and moves through the world around her. A relationship with the rhythm that breathes inside every living thing. A relationship with the quiet guidance that meets her in the places where thought cannot reach.
A breeze moves across the water and brushes her cheek. The body responds with a small inhalation, deeper than before. That single breath reveals the truth she has been trying to name. Belief is not something she chooses once and holds tightly. Belief is something that rises through her, moment by moment, when she allows herself to be present enough to receive it.
Her hand lifts and rests gently against the center of her chest. The heartbeat beneath her palm is steady. The warmth beneath her fingers is unmistakable. Something larger than circumstances lives there. Something that has walked with her long before she knew how to recognize it. Something that waits patiently when she forgets. Something that returns each time she remembers who she is beneath the noise.
The light becomes fuller now, spreading across the water until the entire lake glows. The woman stands, feeling the ground solid beneath her feet. The world has not changed. The responsibilities of the day still wait. Yet her relationship with belief has shifted. She no longer searches for it in guarantees. She finds it in the presence that meets her in each breath.
As she walks back toward the house, the morning air settles around her like a quiet blessing. The sentence from last night returns one final time, but now it feels different. You gotta believe in something. The answer rises from within, simple and clear. Believe in the presence that stays. Believe in the rhythm beneath everything. Believe in the life that moves through her and holds her even when she does not feel strong enough to stand on her own.
She steps onto the porch again. The door opens with a soft sound. The warm kitchen welcomes her back with gentle light. The mug rests where she left it, still warm enough to lift. One more breath enters her chest with steady calm. One more quiet moment begins.
The Truth Beneath
Belief is not certainty. It is the quiet relationship between your inner presence and the wider life that carries you. When you stop searching for guarantees and listen to the steady rhythm beneath your breath, belief becomes less about holding on and more about being held. That presence stays through every season, offering a quiet yes that moves with you wherever you go.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath”
You Gotta Believe in Something
The kitchen light glows softly in the early morning. The room holds that quiet before sunrise when nothing has yet claimed the day. A mug rests between two hands, warm enough to calm the fingers still trembling from a night of unsettled sleep. The window over the sink reflects only darkness. It feels as if the whole world is inhaling, waiting to see which direction the day will move.
A sentence lingers from a conversation the evening before. You gotta believe in something. It was offered with good intentions, spoken lightly, yet the words found their way into a deeper space. They touched an old memory that the body has never fully forgotten. A faint tightness sits beneath the ribs, subtle but persistent, as if the night has delivered a message that the heart is still interpreting.
The mug rises to the lips. Warmth enters the chest. Something inside softens. Even so, the sentence continues to echo. You gotta believe in something. The phrase carries its own weight this morning, more like a question than a reassurance.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
The woman steps outside onto the small porch behind the house. The air is cool and rich with the scent of damp earth. Crickets offer their last notes of the night. Far off in the trees, a single bird tries a tentative call. The world feels both fragile and steady at the same time.
A memory surfaces with unexpected clarity. A hospital corridor years ago, fluorescent lights humming overhead, the air sharp with antiseptic and fear. A person she loved deeply lay behind a closed door. The hours stretched with unbearable tension. Someone placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and repeated that same sentence. You gotta believe in something. The attempt at comfort felt overwhelming then. Belief could not change the outcome. The door opened. Life shifted. The breath inside her has never fully forgotten the tremor of that moment.
That memory returns now, not with pain but with truth. It reveals why the phrase unsettled her the night before. It carried echoes of a moment when belief felt too fragile for the weight of reality. The porch railing receives her hands as she leans forward, grounding herself in the cool morning air.
Belief requires something steady. Something that does not collapse when circumstances bend. Something that does not vanish when the world changes shape without warning. She looks across the yard toward the tree line. Thin strands of fog drift above the ground. Dawn slowly touches them with faint silver.
The body begins to relax, sensing the steadiness of the earth beneath bare feet. Shoulders lower. Breath steadies. The heart remembers another truth hidden inside that old memory. Even in that hospital corridor, something quiet stayed with her. Not a promise. Not a guarantee. A presence. A calm awareness that held her upright when the world spun off balance. A companioning that offered no explanation and no prediction, only steadiness.
That presence did not remove the grief. It held her through it. It did not offer reasons. It offered breath. It did not change the outcome. It helped her stay through the outcome. That presence has followed her into every season since then, often unnoticed, like a soft light behind her shoulder.
She steps off the porch and follows the narrow path toward the lake behind the property. Morning dew moistens the edges of her slippers. The sound of water grows clearer with each step. The lake carries a faint shimmer even before sunlight arrives. A few ducks drift across the surface with a calm acceptance of the day. Their simple trust in the water touches something in her chest.
The bench near the water welcomes her weight. The wood is cool and slightly uneven, but familiar. Hands rest on her lap. Breath slows in a rhythm that matches the gentle movement of the lake. The sentence from last night returns again. You gotta believe in something. This time it lands differently. Softer. More like a guidepost than a command.
The woman closes her eyes. Darkness meets her gently. In that darkness, the body reveals another layer of the truth. The mind has tried to believe in many things over the years. In plans that looked perfect until life rearranged them. In people who held her heart with care until their own storms pulled them away. In future visions that glowed brightly and then faded. None of these were wrong to trust. They were simply temporary. Belief needs something deeper than temporary things.
Within the quiet, something deeper rises. A soft vibration under the sternum. The same vibration that appears when a choice feels aligned even before words describe it. The same vibration that appears when a room feels safe the moment she enters. The same vibration that appears when a path feels true long before logic catches up.
This vibration has never betrayed her, even when circumstances hurt. It stayed through confusion, through heartbreak, through rebuilding. It stayed in the hospital corridor. It stayed the first time she realized she needed to begin again. It stayed each time she walked away from something that no longer supported her spirit. It is the one companion that has never asked her to fix anything before trusting it.
Her eyes open as sunlight spills across the edge of the lake. The surface reflects gold and soft blue, shifting with each ripple. The ducks continue their slow drift, unbothered by the growing light. The world feels honest here, stripped of the noise that complicates belief.
Belief, she realizes, is not about certainty. It is about relationship. A relationship with the presence that lives inside her and moves through the world around her. A relationship with the rhythm that breathes inside every living thing. A relationship with the quiet guidance that meets her in the places where thought cannot reach.
A breeze moves across the water and brushes her cheek. The body responds with a small inhalation, deeper than before. That single breath reveals the truth she has been trying to name. Belief is not something she chooses once and holds tightly. Belief is something that rises through her, moment by moment, when she allows herself to be present enough to receive it.
Her hand lifts and rests gently against the center of her chest. The heartbeat beneath her palm is steady. The warmth beneath her fingers is unmistakable. Something larger than circumstances lives there. Something that has walked with her long before she knew how to recognize it. Something that waits patiently when she forgets. Something that returns each time she remembers who she is beneath the noise.
The light becomes fuller now, spreading across the water until the entire lake glows. The woman stands, feeling the ground solid beneath her feet. The world has not changed. The responsibilities of the day still wait. Yet her relationship with belief has shifted. She no longer searches for it in guarantees. She finds it in the presence that meets her in each breath.
As she walks back toward the house, the morning air settles around her like a quiet blessing. The sentence from last night returns one final time, but now it feels different. You gotta believe in something. The answer rises from within, simple and clear. Believe in the presence that stays. Believe in the rhythm beneath everything. Believe in the life that moves through her and holds her even when she does not feel strong enough to stand on her own.
She steps onto the porch again. The door opens with a soft sound. The warm kitchen welcomes her back with gentle light. The mug rests where she left it, still warm enough to lift. One more breath enters her chest with steady calm. One more quiet moment begins.
The Truth Beneath
Belief is not certainty. It is the quiet relationship between your inner presence and the wider life that carries you. When you stop searching for guarantees and listen to the steady rhythm beneath your breath, belief becomes less about holding on and more about being held. That presence stays through every season, offering a quiet yes that moves with you wherever you go.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath”
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