Breaking, Falling, Becoming

She moves through life as if carried by the wind,

feet touching the ground, yet never fully rooted.

The world calls it progress;

a job, a home, a name that belongs somewhere.

But she does not belong.

She is drifting, a passenger in a story

that does not feel like her own.

Inside, there is peace.

A quiet river of understanding,

a knowing that she has grown,

that she is wiser, softer,

that joy does not need an audience to exist.

She holds it in the palms of her hands,

but it does not hold her back from the weight,

the crushing, endless weight

of dreams slipping through her fingers.

She does not cry every day.

Some days, she even laughs.

But when it comes, it comes like a storm,

a force that swallows her whole.

She wants to scream.

Scream until the sound leaves her body,

until her breath is gone,

until she crumbles to the earth

and is lifted, weightless, into a place

where time is not cruel,

where her higher self waits with open arms,

where ancestors whisper the secrets of survival,

where the ones unseen hold her broken pieces,

mend them with wisdom and light,

and send her back,

not whole, but willing.

Because the world does not stop for sorrow.

Because the journey is not over.

Because even in darkness,

there is a future not yet written,

a path she has yet to carve,

a sun that will rise,

again and again,

until she is ready to walk into its light.