41 Years: A Poem of Struggle, Calling, and Hope
From the Pen of Thomas Miller
authorthomasmiller.com
I was born beneath skies that never promised easy days—
only work, wonder, and the long ache of becoming.
Forty-one years I’ve walked through the storms,
past empty rooms where my own echoes lingered,
and dreams felt like strangers waiting for me to remember their names.
I have failed more times than I’ve risen—
but every failure carried a spark,
every fall whispered, “You’re not done.”
Some nights, I prayed to vanish,
others, I wrote to survive.
There were years the river spoke louder than people,
years the page was my only friend.
I searched for my calling like a man chasing a ghost—
until I realized the ghost was me,
waiting to be seen,
waiting to be written.
Now, at forty-one, I stand not where I thought I’d be,
but somewhere real—
where scars turn into sentences,
and hope is not loud, but steady.
I’ve learned that creation is redemption,
that words can heal the hand that writes them.
And though the road ahead is uncertain,
I know this:
I was meant to tell stories that outlive the silence.
So here’s to the struggle—
the nights that nearly broke me,
and the mornings that rebuilt me.
Here’s to every shadow that taught me light,
and to the next chapter—
still unwritten,
still waiting,
still mine.
— Thomas Miller
📜 www.authorthomasmiller.com