growth
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After months measured in empty rooms and phone calls, home finally has a date and hope dares to become something concrete.
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She does not need saving—only someone who can see the tired eyes, old wounds, and chaos without asking her to become smaller.
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Softness was mistaken for weakness until roots learned how to break stone.
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Survival changed her enough to feel unfamiliar, but the woman in the mirror is finally someone she can recognize with pride.
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She is not only what happened to her; she is every scar, lesson, mistake, and second chance that kept moving forward.
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There were chapters she did not think she would survive, but the story kept turning because she did.
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Healing does not always erase pain; sometimes it means growing large enough that the wound no longer takes up the whole life.
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Motherhood introduces us to impossible versions of ourselves: exhausted, fierce, tender, and somehow still standing.
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The questions changed from who will love me to what part of myself I buried, and suddenly the cards became kinder.
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The work may not come with a paycheck, but every poem and page is building something real one sentence at a time.
Between Bruises & Blooms 