I could never have imagined myself here,
or the things I would go through.
Not just with my health,
not just the hospital stays,
but everything that unraveled around me.

A big part of my world fell apart.
Even though it was me who walked away,
I still hate it,
because I adored that person.

But as my health declined,
I was forced to see things
I had ignored for too long.
Truths I wasn’t ready to face.
And in that seeing,
something shifted.

It took being broken open
to understand what I truly needed.

Peace that wasn’t conditional,
love that didn’t drain me,
and a gentler way to exist
inside my own skin.

There were days
I didn’t think I’d make it.
Pain became my language,
silence my shelter.
But somewhere in that wreckage,
something began to grow.
Quietly, steadily,
impossibly strong.

I started to find myself again.
Not the version shaped by others,
but the one I buried to survive.
The one who still believes
in joy,
in connection,
in starting over.

Now, standing here,
I can finally say,
every heartbreak,
every wound,
every sleepless night
brought me closer
to this version of me.

The one who’s learning to breathe again,
who sees beauty in the scars,
and knows
that sometimes,
falling apart
is the only way
to come home
to yourself.