[hervoice77]

Where Courage Learned My Name

There was a time I stood shaking at the edge of the road,

counting every loss as proof I had run out of courage,

wondering if the life I wanted had already passed into the future,

praying quietly when pain made it hard to hold faith,

sleeping in places that never quite felt like home,

searching every morning for a single moment of peace.

I remember begging the night for mercy and peace,

driving alone with trembling hands down a dark road,

telling myself survival was enough to call a place home,

even when my body felt too tired to gather courage,

even when doctors spoke in words that tested faith,

even when tomorrow felt smaller than the future.

But something stubborn inside me kept whispering future,

kept insisting there would one day be peace,

kept holding onto a fragile thread of faith,

even when I stumbled forward step by step along the road,

even when every new beginning demanded courage,

even when I had to build belonging from nothing and call it home.

Now I am learning to create my own definition of home,

one built from choices that honor my future,

one built from small daily acts of courage,

one that welcomes laughter and protects peace,

one that trusts the journey unfolding along this road,

one that no longer apologizes for believing in faith.

I am beginning to trust the quiet strength of faith,

to believe I deserve safety, warmth, and home,

to keep moving forward even when the road feels uncertain,

to imagine joy waiting somewhere in the future,

to protect the fragile spaces where I am finding peace,

to stand tall in the woman I am becoming through courage.

Some days still ask more of my courage,

still challenge the promises I made in faith,

still remind me that healing takes patience and peace,

but I no longer doubt my right to claim a home,

I no longer fear the shape of my future,

I no longer walk alone on this road.

So let the road rise gently beneath my courage,

let my future be guided by steady faith,

for I am building a life of home and peace.

[hervoice77]

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was studying.

Not men. Not motherhood. Not relationships.

I was studying myself.

Every name I wrote down every list of likes and dislikes every red flag circled in ink was a lesson.

I was learning what peace felt like and what chaos looked like even when it was dressed up as love.

I wrote things that sounded harsh especially to my daughter because I was tired and scared and still healing.

I didn’t have the right words yet. I only had boundaries.

Writing became my outlet when my voice felt too heavy to speak.

If I couldn’t fix it if I couldn’t change it if I couldn’t understand it

I put it on paper.

Some of the poems were mine. Some of them belonged to someone else. But all of them carried my truth.

I was not being dramatic. I was documenting.

Documenting the moment I decided I would never settle again.

Not for half love not for empty promises not for people who showed up only when it was convenient.

I was building standards. I was building strength. I was building a life.

And now, when I look back at those pages, I don’t see mistakes.

I see a woman learning growing and refusing to give up on herself.

[hervoice77]

I didn’t set out to become a survivor.

There was no application, no orientation, no ceremony welcoming me into the role.

Life handed me the title long before I understood what it meant.

At first, survival was something I did quietly.

Pay the bill.

Make the appointment.

Hold the tears until the kids went to sleep.

Smile when people asked how I was doing.

I thought survival was temporary—

a season I would outgrow.

But survival stayed.

It followed me through hospital rooms, courtrooms, job applications, and sleepless nights.

It showed up when relationships cracked, when money ran thin, when my body refused to cooperate.

It stood beside me when hope felt like a rumor.

Somewhere along the way, survival stopped being an action

and became an identity.

I learned how to keep moving when standing still hurt.

How to rebuild when everything collapsed.

How to carry fear in one hand and determination in the other.

People call it strength.

I call it practice.

Because survival isn’t glamorous.

It’s not heroic music and dramatic speeches.

It’s getting up again when nobody claps.

It’s choosing tomorrow when today already took everything you had.

Survival shaped me.

It carved lines into my story and muscle into my spirit.

It taught me that resilience is not about never breaking—

it’s about learning how to rebuild yourself from the pieces.

And now, when people ask who I am,

I don’t just list my titles or my accomplishments.

I tell them this:

I am the woman who stayed.

The woman who fought.

The woman who kept going when quitting would have been easier.

Survival is not just something I lived through.

It is something I became.

[hervoice77]

Amazon.com

[hervoice77]

Amazon.com

Not One Of The Quiet Ones: Poems of Survival, Grief, and Rebuilding