Resilience
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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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Strength does not always look like taming a lion; sometimes it has four small hands reminding a mother why she keeps going.
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She went looking for somewhere to put her grief and found the moon, the forest, an abandoned house, and eventually herself.
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At three in the morning, a candle, black coffee, and forgotten women’s names turn the witching hour into a cathedral.
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The witching hour belongs less to monsters than to women who learned to carry their own light through every shadow.
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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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Midnight has witnessed the ink, cold coffee, motherhood, ghosts, and every unfinished version of her that found a voice after dark.
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Some songs don’t stop belonging to you just because someone changes the dedication. This poem isn’t about ownership—it’s about memory, and how love can echo long after the music changes.
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The boys are coming home, but relief arrives carrying supervision, weekends away, and the knowledge that another fight may still be waiting.
Between Bruises & Blooms 