stigma
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Maybe one day I won’t have to choose between relief and proving myself. Maybe one day healing won’t come with conditions. Maybe one day I’ll light a joint without wondering who might judge the smoke. Until then, I’ll keep choosing the future I’ve been fighting for— one clear morning at a time.
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They might test my blood. They’ll never test the nights I stayed awake rocking babies. They’ll never measure the panic attacks I survived sober. They’ll never weigh the meals I forced myself to eat, or the mornings I got out of bed when depression begged me not to. Sometimes being a good mother looks nothing…
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They see the smoke. They don’t see the panic attack that never happened. They smell the flower. They don’t smell the sleepless nights it softened. They judge the ritual. They never witnessed the battles it helped me survive. Funny, how the loudest opinions so often belong to people who’ve never carried your pain.
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I didn’t quit because I stopped needing it. I quit because tiny hands needed me more. There are nights when sleep still hides, when food still tastes like cardboard, when anxiety paces the hallway inside my mind. And sometimes I remember the little green flower that once taught my lungs how to breathe again. But…
Between Bruises and Blooms 