I may be strong.
I may still carry beauty
born of pain.
But there are chambers of my story
only God has entered—
because words do not always land,
and not every heart
knows how to hold them.
I have worn names
laid on me like verdicts—
small, sharp charges
against my soul.
I have felt shame
others could not bear to face,
their unease slipping out
in whispers,
in mockery,
in silences,
in eyes that rolled
and granted no grace.
What is one soul worth
if she will not fall in line?
If she will not fit the frame?
Did she ask too much—
or only ask
to be seen?
Still—
there will come a knowing.
Not loud.
Not announced.
But in the way
I keep honoring
where there were only stares.
In the way I speak gently
of roads that cut my feet.
In the way I stayed tender
where I was handled roughly.
In the way my story
keeps breathing—
unbidden,
unpermitted,
alive.
They may never know the nights,
the loosening seams,
the prayers spoken
after language failed.
But they will see
what endured.
And it is enough.
The woman who now
makes the evening meal,
washes the last of the dishes,
tends the house in silence—
still bows in thanks
before her God,
even when her knees
CANNOT kneel or stand no more.
Physical pains throb
where emotional wounds left off.
She has become the light in the valley.
The sun for the shadow.
The rock, for the clay.
She is not God,
but He has allowed her
to bear witness,
yet another day.
