🌌 Raised in Her Wreckage
"Her Shadows in Me"
I was raised in the quiet cracks of a woman who never healed, shaped by silence, and smiles that knew how to disappear.
I became the balm to her bruises, her anchor in storms she wouldn’t name. The child turned therapist, listening for love between sighs and slammed doors.
For a while, that was enough. For a while, I didn’t know better. And for far too long, that became my place in everyone’s world.
But I don’t blame her. Blame is easy. Empathy is harder.
I know the weight she carries— not all of it, but enough to explain the sharp edges and the cold absence that sometimes wore her name.
Still, here I am, unlearning the idea that I only matter when I’m breaking for someone else. Still stitching myself together from the pieces I gave away freely.
Healing isn’t pretty. It’s not a quote on a wall. It’s a war in slow motion, a mirror you don’t always want to look into.
Some days, I wonder— when do we stop surviving? When do we stop pretending and start becoming?
I love her. Unconditionally. But the truth I whisper when no one’s listening is this:
I’m not sure I like who she is. And maybe, that’s the first step toward finally becoming who I am.