There were years when my voice lived in hiding.

Not because I was weak,

but because the world around me was too loud

and too careless with what was fragile.

For a long time, I believed survival meant silence.

Until I learned that the quietest woman in the room

is often the one who carries the heaviest truth.

I remember the versions of me that bent themselves

into impossible shapes to be accepted.

The girl who apologized for existing,

who loved too deeply,

who forgave too quickly,

who stayed too long in cold rooms

hoping warmth would one day appear.

But life teaches.

Even when it breaks your bones to do so.

Today, I am not the girl who shrinks.

I am the woman who has risen from everything

meant to bury her —

the storms,

the betrayals,

the silence,

the exhaustion,

the nights spent fighting pain

in a bed that remembered too much.

I have become my own shelter,

my own fire,

my own witness.

Not perfect.

Not polished.

But real.

And if my story still trembles,

it only proves that it’s alive.

I am the echo of every chapter I survived,

the softness they couldn’t erase,

the strength no one saw coming.

And I will never again dim my light

to make the world more comfortable.

This is my voice.

My truth.

My return to myself.

RoseBloom 🌹 copyright © 2025

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