Awake

When life detonates at 2:30 a.m., what will you reach for: denial, fury, or the fierce decision to become your own safe place? In Awake, Jen Hatmaker argues that the way through betrayal, faith fracture, and midlife collapse is not tougher striving or tidier beliefs but a radical awakening to your own truth, your own body, and your own agency. She contends that you can rebuild a beautiful, honest life—one plank, one breath, one boundary at a time—but to do it, you must learn to trust what your body knows, dismantle scripts that kept you small, and let a devoted community row you to shore while you find your feet.

This is not a shiny “bounce back” tale. It begins with an ending: Hatmaker waking to whisper-texted words—“I just can’t quit you”—sent by her husband to someone else as he lay next to her in their bed. In the hours that follow, she follows a trail of lies, ejects him from their home, and summons her family before sunrise. From that rupture, the book charts an often hilarious, often gutting, always unvarnished path through grief, codependency recovery, embodied healing, career and faith reckonings, mothering five kids through collapse, and ultimately an audacious re-entry into joy, friendship, and love.

What This Book Argues

Hatmaker’s core claim is twofold. First: truth—whole truth without “hidden corners”—is the doorway to freedom, even when it ends the story you’ve been telling (her phrase “hidden corners” names the places we stash inconvenient realities so our narratives can survive). Second: your body is a trustworthy guide. While she’d long been taught that “the heart is deceitful” (Jeremiah 17:9), the author learns—through somatic grief, breathwork, ceremony, and medical support—that her nervous system, intuition, and sensations are reliable instruments pointing toward safety, danger, and desire. Where earlier religious scripts demanded self-betrayal in the name of holiness, this memoir insists your undivided self is the holiest ground of all. (For comparison, see Hillary McBride’s The Wisdom of Your Body and Resmaa Menakem’s My Grandmother’s Hands for trauma-informed body wisdom.)

How the Story Unfolds

You’ll watch the author move from shock to scaffolding: sisters sleeping on either side of her for six weeks, two best friends’ husbands sitting outside her house while she hears “the whole truth,” a friend smudging her home with prayer and sage, and Andrew the Navy man offering a lighthouse metaphor on a stifling Texas night: one light, then a few, then the shoreline. You’ll see her rebuild a demolished front porch—literally—plank by plank with women wielding saws, then receive a custom porch swing signed by her friends. She’ll learn money from scratch with Steve the planner, buy her own matte black 1975 Bronco, and put up a 28-seat backyard table under twinkle lights because a friend dreamed “you’ll fill it.”

Concurrently, she interrogates purity culture and patriarchy—dead-rose object lessons, girls policed for shorts at Falls Creek, boys shamed into learning porn at church camp, an eighth-grade teacher who groomed her best friend—and names how these systems harm everyone, including the men they pretend to center. She revisits her public break with white evangelicalism over racism and LGBTQ+ affirmation in 2016, the cost of being “canceled,” and what remains: a surprising, tender friendship with a relaxed Jesus who meets her on porches and in kitchens more easily than in sanctuaries.

Why This Matters for You

If you’ve ever minimized red flags, managed other people’s feelings at your own expense, or confused niceness with love, Hatmaker’s story is a mirror and a map. She names codependent patterns—ignoring, explaining, workaholism, image management—then shows how to detach with love: pause, breathe, right-size the story, and return responsibility to its owner (drawing from Melody Beattie’s Codependent No More and Brené Brown’s sober counsel). She demonstrates how grief moves through your body when permission finally arrives (her first full-body wail happens in a parked car under a neighbor’s pecan tree during an 11-minute meditation called “For Grief”). And she models ordinary mothering in catastrophe—Starbucks gift cards every Monday from a fellow adoptive mom, kids detailing her car for Mother’s Day, a first “Christmas” in October—to prove that fun is medicine, and joy is not canceled.

What You’ll Learn in This Summary

You’ll first explore the hard pivot from curated story to whole truth and how to name what’s real without burning yourself down. You’ll then walk through codependency recovery and embodied practices that steady a nervous system on fire. We’ll examine how dismantling harmful religious scripts frees both women and men, and how a wide, weird, faithful community can carry you until you can carry yourself. Finally, you’ll see what agency looks like in practice—financial literacy, travel alone to Bar Harbor for “Me Camp,” a bestselling cookbook born in grief, and new romance that begins, fittingly, at a Broadway show. The arc lands not on perfection but presence: a woman awake in her own life, whispering to herself at 2:30 a.m., “I just can’t quit you.”

North Star

“The one who will never quit me is me.” Awakening, in Hatmaker’s hands, is the practice of becoming your own safest person—so others are free only to love you, not rescue, complete, or control you.

Hatmaker’s first act of awakening is unsentimental truth-telling. At 2:30 a.m. on July 11, 2020, she hears her husband whisper-text, “I just can’t quit you,” to another woman. In the four silent hours that follow, she uncovers an “entire other life” on his computer. When dawn comes, she doesn’t bargain; she asks for the whole truth and, facing evasion, tells him to leave. Within an hour, she texts her parents and siblings—“I need you at mom’s house right now”—and collapses into their arms. Truth dismantles her domestic peace in a day; it also becomes the only ground solid enough to stand on.

Hidden Corners vs. Whole Truth

Three days later, she names her coping mechanism: hidden corners—places we shove “the pieces that hurt and harm” so our preferred story can keep breathing. She lists what we all hide: addiction, affairs, abuse, secret money, sexual orientation, faith doubt, broken marriages. Corners allow life-as-PR to persist; they also splinter our souls. “We want the story of our lives, not necessarily our actual lives,” she writes. The cost is steep: hidden corners fracture trust with others and within ourselves. Conversely, whole truth ends counterfeit stories and begins something real, which is painful and also the only route to integrity.

When he finally offers “mostly the whole truth” (after she delays one more day—proof that bodies know when they can bear it), the specifics devastate: who she is, how long, public dates, their lake house, money erased without a trail. And then, a saving detail: a text from her best friends’ husbands, Tray and Trace—“We will be parked outside your house the whole time…we are thirty feet away.” Truth doesn’t arrive alone; it is scaffolded by love.

Telling the Truth Changes the Plot

Whole truth is disruptive. It may end a marriage, a ministry, a career in your longtime faith subculture (as it did for Hatmaker in 2016 when she publicly affirmed LGBTQ+ inclusion and was swiftly “canceled” by conservative evangelicalism). But truth also clarifies what is actually true—friendship, grit, the “lighthouse” on the horizon, your kids’ loyalty, your competence with bank passwords, and the fundamental worth of your body and life. When you cut PR loose, real things can grow.

Hatmaker uses physical projects to embody new truth: rebuilding the front porch her husband crowbarred up during COVID (and never fixed) with her handy-women friends Jenny and Shonna; later, standing with her sons, sister, and mom, staining the final boards in 105° heat. The porch is “one hundred percent more beautiful than before it was demolished.” It’s not allegory; it’s muscle memory for living in reality again.

How You Can Practice This

Start by naming a single hidden corner. Write an unpublishable paragraph about it. Tell one safe person. Then do one honest, physical thing that embodies the truth: cancel a secret credit card; book a therapist; delete a hidden chat; walk into a recovery room; schedule the doctor. If a conversation is due, recruit loyalists to sit “thirty feet away,” Tray-and-Trace style. Truth is heavy—don’t carry it alone.

(Parenthetical context: This echoes AA’s Step Four inventories and Harriet Lerner’s counsel in The Dance of Deception—false harmony enslaves; truth liberates with consequences.)

Field Note

“Sometimes the whole truth only shatters the fraudulent parts.” The rest—what is lovely, noble, admirable—holds.

Hatmaker wanted a villain story—clean, simple, absolving. Brené Brown denied her that shortcut and sent her to Melody Beattie’s Codependent No More. Expecting to “correct Brené’s miscalculation,” Hatmaker instead meets a mirror: caretaking, low self-worth, obsession, denial, and the lie that if she managed hard enough, it would all be okay. Her admission is plain: “I became his roommate…relocated all intimacy to my friends and kids…and forgot our marriage was ever anything more.” Codependency didn’t save her marriage; it kept her stuck in cycles of control, performance, and rage-withdrawal.

Recognizing the Pattern

Beattie’s list on denial guts her: ignore problems, pretend circumstances aren’t as bad, stay busy, believe lies, lie to yourself. Hatmaker confesses she razzle-dazzled around her partner’s mood swings, “rearranged the molecules” so others wouldn’t experience what they were actually experiencing, and tried to fix it later behind closed doors. When that didn’t work, she used distance as punishment—classic control in nicer clothes. The consequence? Everyone lived on eggshells, and nothing fundamental changed.

Detachment as Self-Love

The turning point comes later, after divorce, when her ex’s new engagement launches a somatic alarm: pounding heart, heat, shaking hands. Hatmaker employs a detachment protocol remarkably practical:

• Pause and soothe the body. Phone down. Sit in the sun. Box-breathe (8 in, 4 hold, 8 out, 4 hold). Let the feelings crest and fall. (This echoes polyvagal grounding and Tara Brach’s RAIN.)
• Right-size the story. Is this devastating or mostly disappointing? Is this really about worthlessness…or an old wound of disregard?
• Return responsibility. His choices are not her work to manage; her resentment and grief are. Delete the scathing text. Detach.

Her therapist clarifies the heart of detachment: “It isn’t about loving him. It is loving peace and freedom more than chaos and anxiety. Honey, it is loving yourself.” That reframing shifts detachment from punishment to protection.

When Caring Becomes Control

Codependency often masquerades as love—loans, advice, “suggestions,” smoothing social edges—but it usually aims to control an outcome, not connect with a person. Hatmaker names the maternal forms too: making appointments for your 26-year-old, shielding kids from natural consequences, scripting everyone to protect comfort. “Each person is responsible for him or herself plus all the consequences,” she writes—“even the person drowning.” This is border-guard language that respects personhood on both sides.

Try This in Your Life

Identify one relationship where your “help” hides anxiety. For 30 days: commit to pausing before intervening, naming your feeling (fear, shame, urgency), and then choosing a self-honoring action (go for a walk, journal, call a sponsor) instead of a controlling one (text, fix, fund). Put Beattie’s three questions on your phone: What happened? How serious is it? What do I need for me?

(Context: This dovetails with Al‑Anon’s “Detach with love,” Nedra Tawwab’s boundary work, and Bowens family systems—differentiation over fusion.)

A Hard-Won Reframe

If your well-being is predicated on another adult’s behavior, you have forfeited your agency. Detachment is the fastest path to getting it back.

Raised to distrust her heart—“deceitful above all things”—Hatmaker discovers her body has been faithful all along. She learns to treat her body as a “she,” not an “it,” and to let her somatic signals lead when her mind spins. This shift—from head-dominance to embodied wisdom—is one of the book’s most practical, life-changing moves. (See Hillary McBride’s The Wisdom of Your Body for the theoretical scaffolding Hatmaker lives.)

Let Grief Move Through

Her first full-body surrender comes parked under a neighbor’s pecan tree during an 11-minute meditation titled “For Grief” on the Simple Habit app. As the narrator invites awareness of chest, throat, brow, Hatmaker’s body takes the permission: she howls, wails, beats the steering wheel for an hour. It becomes “my first moment of relief.” The lesson is counterintuitive: felt grief regulates; suppressed grief dysregulates.

Days earlier, an energy worker named Judy led her through a visualization: drowning at sea, waves too strong, shore too far—until she sees a boat “with everyone who loves me.” They row her to shore, wrap her and the kids in blankets, say, “You’re home.” Whether you buy meridians and needles or not, her body remembers safety through image and touch, and it’s enough to keep living that day. (Somatic imagery is common in EMDR and Internal Family Systems.)

Create Bodily Safety Rituals

She mothers herself with small, bodily mercies: Night Jen sets coffee and washes her face so Morning Jen wakes to a clean kitchen, dewy skin, and Texas Pecan brewing (“Morning Jen wants to make out with Night Jen”). Candles, Ben Rector on Pandora, made bed, blinds open—tiny anchors that say “you’re safe here.” She also welcomes woo-woo: her friend Amy smudges the house with sage, Gregorian chants, and written prayers room by room (“Living Room Couch: Redeem this small spot that has harbored such pain”). That night forward, she never feels nighttime fear again.

Partner With Medicine

When her blood pressure spikes to 175/125 and a panic attack flattens her in a quiet clinic, Dr. Amadi—a “tender grandfather with a medical degree”—names what’s happening: adrenaline kept her alive; now her body needs help. She accepts Zoloft, anti-anxiety meds, and BP support. Months later, with spirit returned, she tapers off and pens a love note to antidepressants: “You gave me my life back.” The take-home: medication can be a life preserver or a lifelong stabilizer; either way, it is not moral failure.

Close the Bones

Near the end, she undergoes a traditional Mexican Rebozo ritual called Closing the Bones with practitioner Irasema—originally used postpartum to “return the mother to her body.” Wrapped tight like a burial shroud, she panics until Irasema whispers, “Jen, you are safe in your body.” The shroud becomes swaddle. She “buries the trauma” and transitions into the rest of her life. It’s a ceremonial exhale that marries story and soma.

Try This in Your Body

• Choose one grounding ritual for morning and night (coffee timer, face wash, candle, made bed, 8‑4‑8‑4 breathing).
• When flooded, say out loud: “It’s okay that I feel scared. Relax forehead. Unclench hands. Breathe.” Notice the feeling’s arc.
• Borrow language: “I am my own best friend. I am safe with me. I am home.” Touch your arms the way Hatmaker did at 4:00 a.m.

(Context: This integrates Kristin Neff’s self-compassion, Deb Dana’s polyvagal ladder, and the grief-somatic work of Francis Weller.)

Body Thesis

Your body is a honing device and a lookout on the highest point of the ship. When your brain defends old systems, she tells the truth first.

Awakening isn’t only personal; it’s cultural. Hatmaker names and dismantles religious scripts that taught her to distrust desire, police female bodies, center male authority, and accept cognitive dissonance as faithfulness. She shows how those systems harmed her, her sons, and even her ex-husband—then clears space for a kinder, truer spiritual life.

Purity Culture’s Double Bind

As a teen, a pastor plucked petals off a red rose—“You let him touch your body…you have sex…what you have left is a dead stick”—teaching girls their worth was consumable and their bodies a problem. At Falls Creek camp, modesty police sent her and other “picture-of-modesty” girls back to cabins for shorts an inch too short. Decades later, her 12‑year‑old son learned about porn at church camp by being shamed nightly around a fire pit and then Googling it on returning phones. Hatmaker realizes she’d been vigilant for the girls and forgot to protect the boys; purity culture harms both with one through line: shame.

When Authority Turns Predatory

Eighth-grade Mr. Berman felt like the “cool” teacher—swearing, passes to skip assemblies, private lunch chats. Hatmaker recalls her body prickling and hands tingling without “knowing why,” then years later learns he groomed her best friend Amanda while she babysat for him. The takeaway is chilling and liberating: “My body always knew.” (Compare to Gavin de Becker’s The Gift of Fear.)

From Evangelical Darling to Exile

In 2016, during a season of public solidarity with Black leaders and outspokenness against white supremacy, she told Religion News Service she would gladly officiate a gay wedding and drink champagne. Her publisher disavowed her, books were pulled, events canceled, and a pile of burned books appeared in her yard. “At this moment, I could choose my career, or my integrity, but not both.” She chose integrity. Years later, when her divorce became public via a “watchdog” site, the cruelty reappeared—only this time, she refused to outsource her worth to the crowd.

A Softer Spiritual Core Remains

She hasn’t returned to church pews; the lyrics and production exhaust her and she won’t poison the room for those who love it. Yet Jesus remains: “relaxed,” unoffended by geography or the F‑word, as Dallas Willard once described. She finds the Spirit in recovery rooms, porches, and kitchens; she blesses a million routes back to divine love.

How to Unlearn and Rebuild

• Notice where “right” and “true” have diverged (e.g., racism minimized despite data). Choose truth even when it costs you belonging.
• Audit teachings that demanded you become less—less hungry, less sexual, less powerful. End the war with your body.
• Let your heart have eyes. If a doctrine’s fruit is suicide, abuse, colonization, or subjugation, the tree is rotten; don’t eat from it.

(Context: Aligns with Beth Allison Barr’s The Making of Biblical Womanhood, Kristin Kobes Du Mez’s Jesus and John Wayne, and Coleman Hughes/Ta‑Nehisi Coates debates on race—Hatmaker lands with data plus lived witness.)

Freedom Line

“Wouldn’t it feel good to end the war with our own bodies?” Hatmaker’s answer is practice, not platitude.

Contrary to Hollywood’s lone-wolf myth, Hatmaker’s recovery is communitarian. She is never alone by design: her mom on the porch every morning at 8:00 a.m. for a month (“I can’t bear you waking up in this house alone”), sisters sleeping on either side for six weeks, her brother mowing and scrubbing, best friends implementing a “no empty hour” rule of snacks, calls, and texts. If awakening is personal, healing is communal.

Scaffolding in the Dark

When she faces the “whole truth” conversation, Tray and Trace text, “We will be parked outside your house the whole time.” When grief leaks on a porch, Andrew tells a sailor’s story: from sea, you first see a single lighthouse, then scattered lights, then the outline of a city. “Keep watching…You’ll get home.” When her house feels like the scene of the crime, Amy smudges it with rebozos of prayer and incense until the couch’s corner is “folded back into the heart of this home.” She never feels nighttime fear again.

Gifts of Presence, Not Solutions

Susan, a fellow adoptive mom, sends a $25 Starbucks e‑gift card every Monday for six months—relentless, ordinary love. The “blog coven” of six women who survived the rise-and-fall of blogging Voxer her through, one even mailing a Canadian Granny’s hanky anointed with oil and prayer. Friends rebuild the front porch and later surprise her with a custom porch bed swing signed underneath with: “Hope you have years of good wine, good coffee, and good friends, and you feel Jesus near every time you sit here.”

When COVID school crushes everyone and the divorce obliterates bandwidth, a friend gifts a two-week stay in Telluride; the mountains “keep your spirit,” as Annie Dillard wrote. Hatmaker watches her kids laugh over homemade Crunchwrap Supremes and whispers “Thank you” to a canyon.

Chosen Family Endures

Her neighborhood crew—two houses, a golf cart, matching Vespas—becomes “date night” with three couples plus Jen (Tray: “Bring two sides; no free rides for divorcees”). They spill wine on each other’s beds, blast 90s country, avoid triggering songs, and pack all seven into one booth. “I am in love with them,” she writes without irony. Friendship, not romance, midwifes her back to herself.

How to Be and Receive a Scaffold

• If you’re the one suffering, define a simple need: someone to sit in the car, Monday coffee money, a porch shift. Let people help specifically.
• If you’re the helper, think rhythm over heroics: weekly groceries, porch coffee, a timed text, a planned laugh (e.g., “Friday Pizza Night”).
• Favor presence over solutions. No one can fix a detonated marriage; anyone can hold vigil beside the blast site.

(Context: This is Megan Devine’s “It’s OK That You’re Not OK” in practice—companioning grief beats trying to cure it.)

A Porch Benediction

“Divorce breaks a million hearts.” Community doesn’t pretend otherwise; it brings snacks, a swing, a joke, and a truck.

Agency, in this memoir, looks like spreadsheets and spark. Hatmaker learns finances from zero, buys a 1975 Bronco with hand-cranked windows, puts up a Christmas tree in October, writes a bestselling cookbook in grief, invents “Me Camp” solo travel for a month each summer, and builds a 28‑seat table to “fill” under cedar pergola and twinkle lights. The cumulative effect is not performative badassery but an embodied reminder: you can make a life.

Competence is a Muscle

She walks into Steve the planner’s office and can’t answer basic questions: income, bills, passwords, retirement. He closes his laptop and says, “You are going to be okay.” Then hands her a list: inventory every bill, move accounts to your name, open a bank account, close shared cards, refinance the house, clean up spending. Dizzy, ashamed, she still goes home, lights a candle, calls the bank: “Justin, this is Jen Hatmaker. Can you help me?” Ninety days later, the mountain is smaller. (This echoes Ramit Sethi’s “rich life” framing—values-first money—and the practical sobriety of Your Money or Your Life.)

Choose a Vehicle That Fits Your Soul

“Car blind” and formerly chauffeured by car men, she decides she cannot keep driving the posh SUV that represents the old story. After Googling “what kinds of cars exist,” she discovers she likes boxy, beefy, non‑fancy. Enter: matte black 1975 Bronco. Loud, stiff, and soulful, it mirrors her—older, spunky, unautomatic, still with gas in the tank. “I found her myself. I love her.”

Make Joy Outrageous

First Christmas after divorce? Tree up in October, hot cocoa in 91°, Hallmark movies, six stockings not seven. “Why can’t we shoehorn joy into sad places?” When the center won’t hold, she over-produces fun: platinum hair, twinkle lights on the dining table, cake for breakfast, pulling kids from school for a 12:30 movie. This is not avoidance; it is survival through delight.

Me Camp: Dating Your Own Life

To interrupt isolation, she signs her teen up for a no-phones Maine camp and, with three weeks’ notice, books herself a month in Bar Harbor in a renovated 1880 convent. She dubs it “Me Camp,” with two rules: say yes to what arrives (garden brunches with neighbors, library book giveaways, a crocheted lobster sweater) and “should” nothing (write, nap, scooter up Cadillac Mountain, or befriend barstool strangers as desired). She repeats Me Camp annually: Grand Marais (2022), Lambertville (2023), South Haven (2024). It becomes the grandest gesture she keeps repeating.

Feed These People

Her community forces a cookbook into being with a literal petition. After July 11, she almost scraps it: “The center point is feeding my family; we’re broken.” Her agent asks: “Do you still have children, siblings, best friends?” Then feed these people. She does—testing tacos beside blueberry French toast casserole with queso—and insists the cover be shot at her backyard table, filled with her favorite humans at twilight. She filled it.

Starter Kit for Your Agency

• Pick one competence mountain (money, house, car, taxes). Name the first two phone calls. Make them today.
• Plan a mini Me Camp (24–72 hours). One rule: default to yes, “should” nothing.
• Build one physical symbol of your future (porch pot, backyard lights, a single new chair). Let your hands make a promise your heart can follow.

(Context: Echoes Oliver Burkeman’s Four Thousand Weeks—finite time demands present joy—and Katherine May’s Wintering—seasonal rituals restore us.)

Design Principle

You don’t have to wait for justice, apology, or permission to build a good life. Co‑create it now.

The memoir’s final movement is tender, clear-eyed, and grown. Freedom looks like ending the war with her body, forgiving without pretending, holding boundaries without hate, and surprising herself with new love begun, appropriately, in a theater.

Forgiveness Without Foolishness

“It feels important to include that he is sorry,” she writes. She offers forgiveness not as absolution but as release—for both of them. Foolishness would mean no boundaries, no accountability, no honesty; she refuses all three. But she chooses goodwill for her kids’ dad and “the best version of him” in their shared ecosystem of graduations and weddings. She also defends his new wife publicly: “She wandered into our wreckage after the storm, but she was not the storm.” That’s a non-trivial generosity.

Loneliness as a Green Flag

After the adrenaline burns off, a “low-register melancholy” surfaces: loneliness. Instead of shaming it, her therapist reframes it as evidence that her heart survived and wants to feel again. Anger sailed the ship when fuel was scarce; tenderness is a sign of return. This is a graduation emotion, not a regression.

A Beginner’s Song

At the end of a New York press run for her cookbook, she almost grabs a solo ticket to Waitress when her publicist texts, “I have a client you’d love—big 6’2” Black guy with dreadlocks and a heart of gold—he’s seeing Waitress tonight.” Expecting “obviously gay,” she accepts drinks pre-show and discovers, to everyone’s delight, the beginning of a love story. The book closes on the origin of “Tyler,” begun where songs about second chances are sung.

A Relaxed Jesus, A Wide Table

Her spiritual life stands intact minus the institutional scaffolding that injured her. Jesus is “relaxed”; the Spirit meets her on porches, around long tables, in dingy recovery rooms. She holds two lists: Questions I’m Done Asking (Am I asking too much? Does this make everyone else happy? Is God disappointed in me?) and Questions I’ll Ask Forever (What do I want? What does my body know? Am I free? How can I love beautifully?).

The Last 2:30 A.M.

In the book’s title scene revisited, she wakes again at 2:30, but this time her body’s message is playful and profound: “I just can’t quit you.” This is the crux: no partner, platform, or church gets to be her ground of being again. She is awake to her own life, eyes bright, scanning the horizon for the city coming into view.

Practices for the Second Half

• Write your “done asking” and “ask forever” lists. Pin them where you decide.
• Name one person to forgive and one boundary to protect. Do both.
• Plan one table moment (two friends, store-bought chicken, twinkle lights). Bless what is.

(Context: Aligns with Pema Chödrön’s stance of compassionate presence, Katherine May’s seasonal re‑entry, and bell hooks’ notion that love is a verb—ethic, will, and work.)

Final Word

You don’t need to be rescued. You need to be awake. From there, everything tender and true can find you.