Learning Not to Shatter, I Loved Me First
Self-love was the decision I didn’t know I was making until I stopped shattering.
Even glass survives when it learns its own strength. Even a flower stands when it stops asking the wind for mercy.
Harsh words still arrive. They always do. But somehow they change pitch, turn into something distant, almost musical. The louder they come, the softer they land.
Hate, criticism, the ugliest cries thrown my way are rewritten inside me into something listenable, something whole.
There are days it feels like no one is watching my back. If that’s true, there is still one presence that never leaves.
The mirror holds it.
The one who aches when I ache, who feels the weight before I name it, who cries harder than comfort ever could.
So I learned to love there first.
Self-love became both shield and blade. It guards me from what this world hurls and cuts a thin path through the dark when I can’t see ahead.
Broken glass still scatters at my feet, but its edges lose their threat. They soften. They quiet. They begin to feel like clouds instead of wounds.
And somehow, I am still standing.
Still playing.
