We Are Matured by Damages, Not Age
Some people count years
like trophies on a shelf
but I have met children
with ancient eyes,
and adults who still break
at the slightest storm.
Age is only a number
the calendar keeps.
Life keeps a different record.
It remembers the nights
you cried in silence
the doors that closed
without warning
the hands you trusted
that taught you caution
the dreams that shattered
and forced you to build again
Scars are strange teachers.
They do not ask permission.
They arrive,
they wound,
they stay,
and somehow
they leave wisdom behind.
So do not tell me
how old you are.
Tell me what survived you.
Tell me about the battles
that changed your voice,
the losses that reshaped your heart,
the pain that turned
your softness into strength.
For we are not matured by age.
We are matured by the damages
we learn to carry
without becoming them.