I have learned to inhabit
the spaces between words,
where truth sits
like morning dew on grass.

Once, I thought strength meant
taking up less space,
folding myself into corners
until my edges disappeared.

But wisdom comes
in the gentle unfurling
like ferns in spring,
patient and inevitable.

My heart has become
a listening room,
walls weathered soft
from holding others’ stories.

There is no grandeur here,
only the quiet miracle
of being present
in my own skin.

Each scar and stumble
has taught me to hold space
the way earth holds rainfall
without asking why.

I am learning
that my voice matters
not because it rises above,
but because it rises at all.

This is my offering:
open hands,
an unhurried heart,
the courage to simply be.