Becoming Whole

Once, I wore my hurt like a second skin,

silent, heavy, unseen.

I wandered, half-shadow,

half-hope.

 

But therapy —

gentle as rain,

fierce as fire —

called me back to myself.

 

It taught me

to touch my own wounds without flinching,

to name the monsters without fear,

to love even the broken corners of me.

 

It showed me:

I am not my damage.

I am not my storms.

I am the sky that holds them,

the earth that endures them,

the soul that outlives them.

 

Now, piece by piece,

breath by breath,

I am gathering myself

like scattered stars

into a new constellation —

one only I could create.

 

I am not healed.

I am healing.

I am not perfect.

I am powerful.

 

And oh,

how beautiful it is

to rise.