Ink Won’t Fade Where the Soul Speaks

I used to think healing was loud—

like doors slamming shut behind you,

like battles won with a roar.

But it came to me soft instead—

in a morning where I didn’t cry,

in a mirror I no longer hated.

Grief peeled from me like old paint,

layer by stubborn layer,

until the raw wall beneath felt

something like peace.

I learned that survival isn't a banner,

it’s a whisper:

“I stayed.”

That’s the line I keep coming back to.

Not “I conquered,”

not “I thrived,”

but simply—I stayed.

Stayed when it hurt.

Stayed when leaving would’ve been easier.

Stayed when the dark made promises the light never did.

And now,

when I trace the scars and ink of who I am,

I know this:

I stayed, and that was enough.