I. The Writer’s Secret
I pick up my pen and pour out light for the world to hold, not seeing not yet that every word I write is a letter I owe myself.
I bleed motivation onto pages for strangers while my own wounds dry in the dark.
The ink is honest even when I am not.
II. The Hunger
Positivity. Motivation. Inspiration.
How do those words taste when you’re starving?
I preach a table I haven’t sat at.
I know the feast is real I’ve seen others eat
but my hands keep passing the plate
before it ever reaches me.
I built a fire to warm everyone else
and forgot to step inside.
III. The Cocoon
I am a woman who can see her future clearly
but cannot find her footing in today.
Still wrapped. Still waiting.
Not broken just not finished yet.
There is a difference, and I am learning
to stop apologizing for the becoming.
Some gifts take time to unwrap.
Maybe I am one of them.
IV. The War Behind My Eyes
I fight battles no courtroom ever recorded
the war against the woman I was,
the fear that I cannot outrun my own past,
the ghost of every choice that brought me here
sitting beside me like a second sentence.
But regression is not destiny.
And walls even these walls cannot hold a mind
that has decided to rise.
V. The Hard Truth
I cannot do this alone.
That is not weakness
that is the most honest thing I have ever written.
I spent years performing strength
for two children who needed my presence
more than they needed my armor.
So I lay it down.
I ask for help with the same pen
I once used to pretend I didn’t need it.
VI. The Blessing in the Waiting
If I rush this becoming, I will crack before I open.
If I wait in anxiety, I will miss the gift of right now.
So I choose the narrow path between
stillness with intention.
Faith that is not passive but patient.
The vision is already written.
The woman is already named.
I just have to grow into her name.
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