There is she who once walked through fire with bare feet,
who knew the weight of silence, the sting of tears cried in secret.
She carried the burden of battles no one could see,
but she never let it break her.
She who endured
not because it was easy,
but because giving up was never an option her soul could accept.
And now,
the darkness that once consumed her whole begins to part.
Theres the light—soft, tentative, but growing.
It dances at the edges of her vision, and she follows it.
Like a ballerina delicately captured every moment with such grace
This is She who once painted her life in muted greys,
and now
she dips her fingers into pastel skies,
tracing hope in lavender, rose, and golden blush.
She who no longer afraid to live life in pink
not because it is soft,
but because she finally knows that softness is not weakness.
It is strength made gentle.
Peace lives in her now.
Not the kind shouted from mountaintops!
but the quiet kind that hums in her chest,
in the way she forgives,
in the way she breathes deeply without apology.
Kindness clings to her like morning light,
and her soul?
her soul is ethereal,
as though its made of stardust and second chances.
She is almost there.
And somehow, she always was.
~.
who knew the weight of silence, the sting of tears cried in secret.
She carried the burden of battles no one could see,
but she never let it break her.
She who endured
not because it was easy,
but because giving up was never an option her soul could accept.
And now,
the darkness that once consumed her whole begins to part.
Theres the light—soft, tentative, but growing.
It dances at the edges of her vision, and she follows it.
Like a ballerina delicately captured every moment with such grace
This is She who once painted her life in muted greys,
and now
she dips her fingers into pastel skies,
tracing hope in lavender, rose, and golden blush.
She who no longer afraid to live life in pink
not because it is soft,
but because she finally knows that softness is not weakness.
It is strength made gentle.
Peace lives in her now.
Not the kind shouted from mountaintops!
but the quiet kind that hums in her chest,
in the way she forgives,
in the way she breathes deeply without apology.
Kindness clings to her like morning light,
and her soul?
her soul is ethereal,
as though its made of stardust and second chances.
She is almost there.
And somehow, she always was.
~.
