I remember the mornings
when the sky felt too heavy,
when the weight of the world
pressed against my chest
and the air seemed to disappear
like a thief in the night.
But I am made of something else—
something stronger than the silence,
something deep,
in the bones,
in the pulse of my blood
that refuses to be still.
I rise.
Not because it’s easy—
no, it’s never easy—
but because I know
my absence would be deafening,
and
because I know
what it’s like to stand on the edge,
to feel the darkness pull me in,
and still,
still,
I rise.
I rise like the dawn that doesn’t ask permission
to chase the night,
like the breath that has been stolen
but refuses to stay gone.
Some days,
the struggle is so loud
it drowns out everything,
but even in the chaos,
there’s a whisper inside me—
a reminder,
that I am here.
That I am still here.
I rise,
not because I’m fearless,
but because I’ve learned
that fear does not define me.
I rise,
because the storm will pass,
and I will stand tall enough
to let the sun find me again.
And when the ocean of voices inside me tell me
to stay small,
I will spread my wings,
even if they’re broken,
even if they tremble.
I will rise,
because no darkness can last forever.
