my Articulate Heart

The more I become truly myself, the more I become Christ. There are creatures that live and move within their own shelters. Their shell is not just protection—it is also their identity. Without it, we would hardly recognize them. Now imagine this: you are like a living house. You dwell within it. You move, and the house moves. You stop, and it stops. You are its life. But what if, while living inside this house, you begin to believe that you are merely a wall… or the ceiling… or the floor? You move when the house moves, but you no longer know that you are the one giving it life. This is the disconnection I have experienced within myself. When I receive Jesus in the Eucharist, He comes into me as God—fully, truly, and entirely. Nothing within me, or outside of me, can diminish who He is. He does not become less God because He enters me. So if nothing seems to change in me after receiving Him, it is not because something is preventing God from acting. It is because He chooses to come gen...

I Become What I Receive. I become Christ. In a mysterious and real union, He remains in me, and I in Him (cf. John 15:4). This is made possible each day in the Eucharist. At the Holy Mass, I come not as one who is worthy, but as one who is willing. I offer my body—marked by sin, weakness, and brokenness—to Christ. I do not hide it. I place it on the altar with Him. And He receives it. He takes what is mine and unites it to what is His. My frailty is joined to His perfection. My broken offering is drawn into His perfect sacrifice to the Father. What I could never make holy, He makes holy. As Scripture says: “Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God—this is your true worship” (Romans 12:1). In Him, my life becomes an offering. I begin to see my body in His crucified body. My sins—once hidden—are lifted up, like the serpent raised by Moses in the desert (cf. John 3:14). They are no longer mine to carry alone. They are taken up into Him. And then—He g...

There is a subtle dissatisfaction that has echoed through much of my life. Not loud. Not dramatic. But persistent. A quiet sense that what I have is not quite the best . It touches everything—my relationships, my abilities, my work, my circumstances. Even the good things, the gifts I know I have received, seem to carry this faint shadow: “It could have been better.” And over time, I began to realise—this wasn’t about the things themselves. It was about how I saw them. And perhaps, more deeply, how I saw myself. The Lens I Didn’t Know I Was Wearing Looking back, I can see a pattern. Whenever I encountered something similar in another person’s life, it seemed better than mine—more refined, more complete, more desirable. And strangely, life often seemed to confirm this. But what I now understand is this: I wasn’t seeing reality clearly—I was seeing it through a wounded lens. A lens shaped by an unspoken belief: what is given to me is somehow less . This...

We live in a world where love is one swipe away. Left. Right. Match. Chat. Ghost. It’s fast, exciting… and honestly, exhausting. Because deep down, most people aren’t just looking for attention. They’re looking for something real: Someone who sees them Someone who stays Someone who loves them for who they are But here’s the tension: The culture trains us to consume people Our hearts are made to love persons So how do you actually build real love in a swipe culture? 1. Stop Treating People Like Options Swipe culture subtly teaches: “There’s always someone better” “Don’t settle” “Keep your options open” But real love requires the opposite: Choose one person, not endless possibilities Love begins when you shift from: “Who’s next?” to “Who is this person in front of me?” 2. See the Person, Not the Profile Profiles reduce people to: Looks Bio lines Interests But you are not falling in love with: A curated version A highlight reel You are enc...