We set out together,
bags packed with more than clothes—
dreams, deadlines, and chances
tucked between the folds.

Some mornings you chase your calling,
while I lean into mine,
our hours stretching different ways,
yet circling back in time.

The city holds us loosely,
but we carve a space to meet—
sharing wins like souvenirs,
making every moment sweet.

Healing isn’t gentle.

It doesn’t arrive like sunlight. ⛅️

It shows up in the curve—

the crook in the road—

where you thought the path would straighten out

but instead, it bends

and asks you who you really are

without your armor.

You get used to the lies.

The ones you whispered just to make it through.

“I’m fine.”

“This is just how I am.”

“At least I’m not like them.”

They kept you warm when the truth was cold.

They gave you structure

when the world didn’t give you anything else.

So you built a house out of survival—

but forgot to make it a home.

The hardest things to unlearn

are the ones you taught yourself.

To cope.

To hide.

To not fall apart in public.

You blamed your parents.

You blamed society.

But the blueprint you followed?

It was drawn with your own hands,

shaking but steady.

You became your own safety net

and didn’t notice it was wrapped in barbed wire.

Being stuck isn’t permanent.

It’s a pause.

A signal.

A chance to ask:

Am I really walking forward—

or just dragging yesterday with me?

Because healing doesn’t happen when you know where you’re going.

It begins when you question why you’ve been afraid to arrive.

And the crook in the road?

It’s not a detour.

It’s the invitation.

To feel it all.

To be new.

To let go of the safe version of you—

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.

i thought the crack meant collapse. but instead, it let the light in differently. and now i understand why truth stands— i notice every little thing. and miss some, too.