There’s a woman who walks between silence and sound.
She carries light in her eyes, but sometimes it flickers.
Her strength is quiet. Not loud, not boastful—
Just a whisper that says “keep going” when no one else is listening.
She is soft, but not weak.
She bends, but never breaks.
She doesn't always speak, but when she does,
her words pour like rain on thirsty ground.
She disappears sometimes—not because she’s lost,
but because solitude is her way of breathing.
People see her smile and think they know her.
They don’t see the wars she’s fought with herself in the night.
The poems she writes on her skin,
The storms she calms with her silence.
She is learning not to apologize
for needing space,
for wanting peace,
for dreaming differently.
And maybe—just maybe—
that’s what healing looks like.
