Chaos with Cait

Half gone, half becoming like every secret I’ve ever kept.

I have walked through silence and made peace with it. I have known stillness so long, it became my language. But today my body dances because my breath feels like song. The air moves through me as if we were dancing the tango. I am not who I was before the storm. I am quieter now, but stronger for it. I move with care, but also with wonder like someone seeing color for the first time. I have learned that survival is not the same as living. And living, oh, it is such a brave t

Surrender is not the ending we were taught to fear. Surrender is actually the soft unthreading of the fight that once kept us alive. Surrender is just the body whispering to please rest now. Surrender is grace arriving right on time. And, not with triumph but with open hands. To surrender is to remember that strength has many faces, and sometimes it can look like stillness. Surrender is choosing peace over proving, it is trusting that what’s meant for you does not need to be

No is a sentence. Yes, is my sanctuary.

he said that my softness was weakness, but I bend like silk and I never break.

I rose, not because I was ready, but because staying down was killing me faster.

If you can, place a hand over your chest. Do you feel that? That steady beat? That is proof that you’re still here, proof that the freeze did not win. So when you’re ready and, not a moment before the thaw will come. Until then, this poem will wait with you unmoving and alive.

Wanting you felt like holding a storm inside my chest.

She woke one morning, feeling new life in her breath. She woke one morning, and decided again, that she would give life her best. She woke one morning, and decided that she was worth while. She woke one morning, and decided nobody was allowed to steal her smile.

Every heartbeat of mine, is a form of rebellion. A gentle declaration that I am not finished.

He loves me best when it costs him nothing. Late nights. Loose promises. Affection on clearance. He calls this chemistry. I call it convenience. This type of love is a hunger that shows up full and leaves me empty. He wants my body without the responsibility of my heart. He dares ask for my softness without offering any stewardship. He thinks that he gets to experience my magic, without putting in the effort of learning its language. Modern men love in fragments. Half texts.

I wake with questions settling on my skin like the morning frost, after a cold night’s freeze..

Even bruised, I believe in the kind of love that does not ask me to shrink.

Say her name before it is folded into statistics, before the news cycle sharpens its teeth and moves on. Renee Nicole Good was alive, in a body that deserved to keep breathing. America failed to protect that simple truth. ICE moves like a winter that never learned mercy. Cold policies. Cold hands. Cold distance between those who decide, and those who are disappeared by decision. This country keeps calling it order while chaos wears a badge. This country keeps calling it safet

Change doesn’t ask permission. Change bangs at the door until you remember how to open it.

I am allowed, to outgrow the versions of me that only knew survival. I am allowed, to become a brand new version of me.

The world asks for productivity, for proof and for performance. This is your reminder that rest is resistance, in a culture that worships depletion. This is your reminder that joy is rebellion, when despair is more convenient. And if all you did today was breathe and endure, know this Nothing else is required of you. You are already enough.

The path is crooked, but my breath still makes music on the climb. With each step, my lungs decide the tempo even when life claps on the wrong count.

I have been wandering the edges of who I used to be, enjoying a tenderness I almost remember. The silence has grown soft around me, almost kind, therefore I no longer fear the echo of my own steps. Instead, I am eager to take them. Somewhere beneath the doubt that has haunted me, something small is stirring. I feel my pulse, strong as ever. I hear whispers that sound like maybe. Maybe I am not lost, perhaps I have only been waiting to remember the way back to myself.

Hope is not loud it doesn’t shout its way back. Hope hums beneath the grief like a song you almost forgot you knew, the one your body knows before your mouth does. Until one day, without deciding to you start singing along. And now, a new band has been formed out of you two where time is spent learning how to play what’s left, and what’s next.