growth
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Changing does not betray the woman she was; it simply means some survival versions no longer need permanent rooms inside her.
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Healing means keeping the truth about mistakes and scars without letting either become the whole story.
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She knows darkness well enough to walk it with her eyes closed, which may be exactly why she is finally learning how to leave.
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The past still lives in courtrooms, hospitals, and old names, but each morning the garden keeps proving life can grow beside memory.
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Porches, gravel roads, abandoned houses, forests, and kitchens become the places that held her when people could not.
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The woman who once waited has already left, and the old door was burned for firewood the moment almost stopped being enough.
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After they left, the fire remained—and grief slowly revealed itself as the same stubborn life still writing, rebuilding, and choosing tomorrow.
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She kept building a future brick by borrowed brick before realizing she was constructing a home for someone who had already walked away.
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There was no final fight or slammed door, only silence cruel enough to make uncertainty feel like a haunted house.
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Regret may line the path behind her, but it does not get to choose the direction of the next step.
Between Bruises & Blooms 