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The One Who Kept Surviving
They would describe me as quiet,
the girl who rarely speaks first,
the woman who measures her words
before letting them leave her lips.
Not because I have nothing to say.
But because life taught me
that words can become weapons,
and I still carry the scars
from the people who swung them.
So sometimes I disappear into silence.
Not out of anger.
Not out of indifference.
But because my heart remembers
what it feels like
to be laughed at,
belittled,
made small.
And I have spent enough years
being made small.
I am five-foot-one
and somehow still carry mountains.
Mountains of memories.
Mountains of worries.
Mountains of responsibilities
that never seem to stop growing.
Bills.
Work.
Teenagers with attitudes.
Children I would die for
without hesitation,
even on the days
they tell me they hate me.
Those words cut deeper
than they will ever know.
Because every piece of me
was built around loving them.
They are the reason
I keep showing up.
The reason I keep trying.
The reason I keep surviving.
Life introduced me to cruelty early.
I learned fear
before I learned freedom.
Learned survival
before I learned peace.
My childhood left fingerprints
all over my soul.
Anxiety still knocks at my door.
PTSD still whispers old stories
when I wish it would stay quiet.
Some wounds heal.
Others simply learn
how to live beside you.
Yet somehow,
through every storm,
I remained kind.
Maybe too kind.
The kind of person
who gives pieces of herself away
even when her own hands are empty.
The kind of person
who loves people fully
while they are still deciding
whether she is worth loving back.
Life taught me
that not everyone carries kindness
the way I do.
That lesson hurt.
But it never changed who I am.
Because despite everything,
I still choose love.
I still choose hope.
I still dream.
Of a little house
with my name on the paperwork.
A place that belongs to me.
A place where no one can tell me
I don't deserve to stay.
And when I picture myself there,
I see a woman smiling.
A woman lighter than she once was.
Not just in body.
But in spirit.
A woman no longer carrying
every burden alone.
A woman finally breathing.
A woman finally living.
Until then,
I keep walking.
One overwhelming day at a time.
One hard lesson at a time.
One broken piece at a time.
Because that has always been my story.
Not the one who was hurt.
Not the one who was forgotten.
Not the one who almost gave up.
I am
The One Who Kept Surviving.
