I press my fingers into the soil
of days I thought had swallowed me
and feel the pulse
of the person I forgot to name.

They taught me survival-
how to wrap my heart in armor,
how to speak only with quiet lips,
how to breathe with one eye open.

But beneath that iron skin
rests the soft architecture of me:
a child who laughed without fear,
a dreamer who danced in sunlight.

Healing isn't climbing toward someone new.
It's crawling back through the tunnels
I built around my tender places,
lighting match after match
to guide me home.

Layer by layer
I peel away the habits born of hurt-
the clenched jaw,
the hold-your-breath
when kindness knocks.
I learn to un-clutch,
un-hold,
un-shy.

I remember how it feels
to cradle my own sorrow,
not push it away
but offer it a seat at my table.
I speak gently to my own wounds,
let them uncoil and find their words.

I was never broken-just buried
under the debris of other people's storms.
Now I dig with open palms,
turn over each memory
until I find the glimmering core
of who I am.

And when I lift myself free,
I stand unveiled and whole,
a testament to soft triumph,
proof that the truest healing
is simply remembering
how to shine again.