Forged In Fear, Born From Fire

You tried so hard to be the version of me that they could love.

The version that made herself smaller, quieter, easier to hold

but never too much to carry.

You were the girl who apologized for taking up space.

The one who smiled with trembling lips and swollen eyes,

hoping no one would ask why.

You learned early that survival meant obedience, that softness was a liability, that silence could keep you safe;

or at least unseen.

So you swallowed the screams,

stiffened your spine, and folded your truth into corners they never bothered to look in.

You believed that if you were good enough,

pretty enough, strong enough, empty enough,

someone might finally stay.

You used to called it love when it was actually endurance,

I heard you call it discipline when it was actually self-erasure,

you would even call it womanhood when it was actually war.

I remember how you flinched at your own reflection, and how

you punished your body for carrying pain it didn’t ask for.

I remember the loneliness and,

how it wrapped itself around you at night like a second skin.

And I want you to know, You didn’t fail.

You adapted,

always protected us,

and you endured a storm you had no map for.

But, you don’t have to hold your breath anymore.

Because now,

I weep when I need to and I rage when it rises.

I say no without explanation and yes without guilt.

I don’t dilute my brilliance to make room for people who never saw me anyway.

I am building a life that does not ask me to disappear

This life, it’s messy, and it’s loud, but mostly it’s mine.

To the woman I thought I had to be,

you were forged in fear, but I was born from your ashes.

And I am not sorry for finally becoming everything they told us not to be.