There were nights
I didn’t want to wake up.
Mornings where my chest felt caged,
where breathing felt like punishment,
not promise.

I’ve stared at ceilings
like they owed me answers.
Told myself I was fine
when I was breaking in slow motion.
I smiled through funerals—
not just of people,
but of versions of me
no one knew I buried.

I gave love to people
who turned it into leverage.
Told my secrets to ears
that sold them for nothing.
Held others up
while I drowned quietly.
Not a splash.
Not a sound.
Just me,
and the weight
that everyone swore they didn’t see.

I trusted hands
that left me bleeding,
blamed myself
for needing.
Let too many “almosts”
convince me I was hard to love.
I became cold,
but I was never heartless—
just tired of being the only one
who showed up.

But something shifted.
Not fast.
Not loud.
Just slowly—
like the way wounds close
when you stop picking at them.

Now I don’t chase.
I choose.
I don’t beg.
I build.
I speak softly
because I’ve learned
my silence holds power
too many tried to steal.

I still remember the pain,
but it doesn’t define me.
It forged me.
Shaped me.
Tested me
without warning
and still—I rose.

So don’t mistake this calm for weakness.
It’s the peace I earned
after surviving storms
you couldn’t stand in.

I’m not who I was—
and thank God.
Because now?
I walk like I know my worth.
Because I do.
And I’ll never hand it to someone
who doesn’t know what it costs.