“My Soul, Rewritten”

My Soul, Rewritten

A Poetic Confession of Transformation

By[Ali Rehman]

I once believed souls were unchanging—

just silent vessels gathering dust in shadowed corners.

That people remain fixed, quietly crumbling,

burdened by the weight of all they cannot forget.

But I was mistaken.

Some souls don’t settle for dust—

they blaze, they shimmer, and they rise again.

It started on a morning wrapped in cold silence,

when the sun hung pale, as if the sky had forgotten to breathe.

My reflection flickered faintly on the glass—

a fragment of someone I barely recognized anymore.

I was trapped in a loop—

the same walls, the same restless ache murmuring,

“You are not enough.”

Not a shout, but a hush that crept between heartbeats,

still and heavy like a secret kept too long.

Every day, I wrote—not out of desire,

but because the words quieted the endless silence.

My journal became my only truth—

holding every whispered confession, every failed hope.

But even those pages tired of my sorrow,

my words hollow echoes from an empty cavern.

Then one day, something inside me quietly cracked—

soft as paper tearing beneath invisible weight.

That was the day I stopped writing.

For the first time in years, I let the pen fall,

and stared at the blank page,

challenging me to speak without disguise,

to say something honest, to start anew.

And so I began again.

This time, I did not write tales of others,

nor crafted verses to sound beautiful.

I wrote myself—

the broken parts, the lies I told, the fears I hid.

I wrote of the girl who smiled for everyone but forgot her own joy,

until my hand trembled with truth bleeding through the ink.

Somewhere in that mess of words,

I found a pulse—

a heartbeat silent for far too long.

It whispered,

“You are not broken—

you are unfinished.”

And then I understood—

souls are never written once.

They are rewritten a thousand times—

redrawn by every loss, every love, every tear we dare release.

I began to walk again—not down streets,

but within myself.

I opened doors I vowed never to touch,

unearthed memories buried deep.

It was painful—

sometimes tears fell without reason,

sometimes laughter bloomed from nowhere.

Each feeling was like sunlight

seeping through cracks I didn’t know I had.

The world outside shifted too.

The sky, once gray and breathless,

now shimmered with gentle blues and soft pinks.

Songs I once ignored became familiar homes.

And in the mirror,

I no longer saw a stranger—

but someone growing, evolving.

Transformation does not shout.

It arrives quietly—

when you are too weary to resist,

too numb to pretend,

too truthful to hide.

It begins when you whisper,

“I don’t know who I am,”

and mean every word.

Over time, I rewrote my soul in small acts:

forgiving those who never said sorry,

loving myself without conditions,

finding poetry in my own voice—

not just the words I put on paper.

I learned healing isn’t returning to who I was—

but becoming someone new,

carrying the wisdom of what I survived.

The fire that once threatened to consume me

became the ink with which I rewrite my story.

Now, I write again—

not from pain, but presence.

Not to escape, but to remember.

The blank page no longer frightens me;

I greet it like dawn—

another chance to begin.

Because I’ve come to know this simple truth:

a soul is never just one story.

It’s a vast library—

chapters dark and bright,

all sacred.

And every time we break and rise again,

we don’t erase ourselves—

we rewrite our souls—

deeper, truer, infinitely alive.