Healing & Becoming
Poetry about surviving, rebuilding, learning yourself again, and becoming someone new without pretending the bruises never happened.
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I found my motheron page one hundred and thirty,preserved in black and white,a ghost with familiar eyesstaring back at the daughtershe had long since taughtto live without her. And God,for a moment,I smiled. Because before the addiction,before the empty promises,before I learnedthat a mother’s lovecould be somethingyou spent your whole childhoodbegging to receive, she was…
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To every year that tried to swallow me: you changed me, marked me, and scarred me—but you did not get to keep me.
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The life I couldn’t imagine isn’t glamorous—it is loud, messy, ordinary, and more sacred than I knew to ask for.
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Healing is awkward, inconvenient, and rarely pretty—but even among the ruins, stubborn little flowers grow.
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A letter to the five-year-old girl who survived—and became the safe adult she once needed.
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Thirty-one arrives without fireworks—only scars, survival, and the stubborn miracle of still being here.
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On the final night of thirty, I lay down what hurt, honor what carried me, and open the door to thirty-one.
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After years of being understanding, anger becomes a voice—the part of her that finally learns how to say enough.
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A refusal to keep translating silence: if you miss me, love me, fear something, or need something, say it plainly.
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A poem about leaving gently, still caring for someone even as you drive away for good.
