Healing is not a race,

but a rhythm.

A remembering.

A return to the self you buried

beneath survival.

 

It begins

where the silence hurts the most—

where the wound still flinches

at the thought of being touched.

 

It is not forgetting the pain,

but loosening its hold on your name.

It is learning

you were never broken—

only becoming.

 

The ache was an altar.

The tear was a tide.

The fall became the flight

you didn’t know you needed.

 

Let the sorrow speak.

Let the grief move through.

It is not who you are.

 

You are the witness,

not the wound.

You are the light that came

to guide yourself home.

 

And you are doing it.

Every breath.

Every tear.

Every effort

is proof.