You’re sick and tired but so am I,
of the things I’ve lived with since I was knee high.
The whispers I’ve swallowed.
The shadows I’ve worn like skin.
The rooms I shrink in,
just to be told I’m too much when I breathe.
I don’t always enjoy “who I am.”
But this slow becoming—
this crawl toward the self I can stand beside—
has taken longer than I promised myself.
And baby steps feel stupid when you always take them.
When momentum looks like movement
but sounds like doubt.
Sometimes I wonder if the imposter is a syndrome
or just me caught in costume,
forgetting who I was under all this trying.
Every leap invites a fall.
Every fall finds a wall.
Then the tape loops again—
a soft lie set to a loud beat:
“You were almost there.”
Almost.
Prayer is the most peaceful place to be.
Still.
Faith is a fist in my chest that won’t let go.
Even when I want to.
It clings to me, sings to me,
reminds me that almost does count—
the efforts that get you closer.
’Cause baby steps are better than death.
And who am I kidding—
it’s a marathon, not a sprint.
Even last place still has to finish.
Smiling with tears—two truths, one story.
