I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was studying.
Not men. Not motherhood. Not relationships.
I was studying myself.
Every name I wrote down every list of likes and dislikes every red flag circled in ink was a lesson.
I was learning what peace felt like and what chaos looked like even when it was dressed up as love.
I wrote things that sounded harsh especially to my daughter because I was tired and scared and still healing.
I didn’t have the right words yet. I only had boundaries.
Writing became my outlet when my voice felt too heavy to speak.
If I couldn’t fix it if I couldn’t change it if I couldn’t understand it
I put it on paper.
Some of the poems were mine. Some of them belonged to someone else. But all of them carried my truth.
I was not being dramatic. I was documenting.
Documenting the moment I decided I would never settle again.
Not for half love not for empty promises not for people who showed up only when it was convenient.
I was building standards. I was building strength. I was building a life.
And now, when I look back at those pages, I don’t see mistakes.
I see a woman learning growing and refusing to give up on herself.
