The clickety-clack of red shoes against the pavement announced her arrival long before her presence did. Each step towards her therapist’s office echoed a question thrumming in her heart: “Do I still believe?”

January 2nd; the new year kicked off, but the same relentless storm of challenges remained: job lost, debt mounting, love departed, health fading, leaving her grappling for faith.

Then, her gaze snagged on the crimson glow of her shoes. A whimsical purchase, worn for the first time today. They felt like a spark, a whispered counterpoint to the storm. Even in the depths of despair, beauty clung on, defying the shadows.

The woman arrived at the office housing a number of therapists and took a seat in the quiet waiting room. She looked around and a mosaic of faces mirrored her own uncertainties. But instead of isolation, she felt a strange sense of solace. She wasn’t alone in this dance with doubt.

Her therapist called her name, and she went into the office. She sat down in a plush chair, and the therapist asked her how she was doing.

The therapist, with a gentle smile, listened as the woman poured out her story. The loss, the anger, the fear, oh, the fear, and the gnawing void where faith once resided.

“It’s okay,” the therapist finally said, her voice a soothing balm. “Finding faith isn’t always the answer. Maybe we don’t have to overthink it because maybe faith, like air, simply exists. We breathe it in without being fully aware that that is what sustains us.”

The surprised woman blinked with wet lashes. “But God?” she whispered.

The therapist shook her head. “I don’t know. But my faith in beauty remains. Even in the storm’s eye, even in the cracks of life, something shines. If I can’t see it then I must trust in the eyes of another who can. I must feel it in the warmth of a mug; hear it in the comfort of music; smell it in the emerald symphony outside. And that, for me, is enough.”

Silence stretched for a moment, then the doubting woman’s lips curved into a hesitant smile. “What if I’m still oblivious to faith?”

The therapist’s eyes twinkled. “Dare to hope in a new tomorrow. Let the sunrise ignite your hope. Make a point to do the right actions, and share that radiance with others. A smile to a stranger, a surrendered parking space in a crowded lot. Remember always: the free-spirited audacity of red shoes dancing on marred gray sidewalks – these too are paths to beauty. Look at Kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold. The cracks, once wounds, become gilded threads, woven into the story of the piece. Like your shoes, every scar can be a flourish, a testament to resilience. Regardless of differing fortunes, we all walk paths riddled with cracks, yet they are still our steady ground.”

A wave of relief washed over the woman. She didn’t have all the answers but she had derived what she had needed: a seed of hope. She’d let up on the searching, but would continue to walk despite the brokenness, scarlet threads woven through her path, unseen but keenly felt.