How silly of me
to spend years searching
for my own reflection
in the eyes of strangers,
to beg mirrors made of people
to tell me I was enough.
How silly of me
to confuse longing with love,
to call abandonment destiny,
to wait at emotional doorsteps
hoping someone would finally
let me come home.
I forgot —
home was always my ribcage,
my breath rising and falling
like a quiet promise,
my hands learning how to hold
what no one else taught them to keep.
I forgot I survived myself.
That I carried grief like a second spine
and still stood upright.
That I learned tenderness
without being given a manual.
That I became soft
in a world that begged me to harden.
How ridiculous, really,
to overlook the woman
who stayed when everyone left.
Who watered her own roots
with tears and stubborn hope.
Who stitched her own heart together
with patience and midnight prayers.
I am the one who knows my shadows
and kisses them anyway.
I am the one who hears my silence
and answers it gently.
I am the one who shows up
even when applause is absent.
So today I remember.
Not loudly.
Not performatively.
But deeply.
I remember that I am not waiting
to be chosen.
I am choosing myself —
again,
and again,
and again.
How silly of me to forget…
but how beautiful of me
to finally remember.
