In the quiet shadows where pain once lingered,
I stand, not a victim, but a fierce survivor,
With open eyes, I gaze upon the scars,
Each one a testament, each one a reminder.

Healing does not mean to drown in the sorrow,
Nor to wear the weight of my wounds as a crown,
It’s not a prison built from memories borrowed,
But a journey of strength, where I won’t back down.

I’ve learned to see the cracks in my armor,
To acknowledge the tears that trace my face,
With trembling hands, I gather the pieces,
And stitch them together with love and grace.

Grief is a river, it swells and it flows,
I wade through its waters, I feel every ache,
But I won’t let the current pull me under,
I’ll rise with the dawn, for my spirit’s awake.

I seek not the solace of walls built from fear,
Nor the comfort of silence that echoes with blame,
For healing is action—each step that I take,
A dance through the fire, a reclaiming of flame.

With loving help, I weave in the patches,
Threads of connection, of laughter, of tears,
Together we mend what once felt so broken,
In the tapestry woven through all of our years.

So here I stand, with my heart in full bloom,
Not perfect, but whole, in this beautiful fight,
For healing means moving, not merely surviving,
With courage as compass, I step into light.

Patches and all, I embrace the imperfect,
Each flaw a reminder of battles well-fought,
In the mosaic of life, I find my reflection,
A woman of strength, with a heart that is sought.

And though the journey may twist and may turn,
I’ll carry my stories, the lessons I’ve learned,
For healing is living, it’s thriving, it’s bold,
It’s the courage to rise, with patches of gold.

© etechnocrats