She Was Her Own Revolution

A poem for every woman who has ever been told she’s too much or not enough — this is for the ones who learned to define themselves.

They tried to name her

before she could speak.

Told her what softness should look like,

how smallness could be holy.

They drew borders around her dreams

and called it safety.

But she grew beyond the map.

Every “no”

was a seed she buried

and watered with defiance.

Every tear

was a prayer whispered

into her own becoming.

She learned that strength

doesn’t always roar.

Sometimes, it’s the steady hand

that keeps building

when the world keeps breaking.

They wanted her to be quiet,

but her silence was thunder.

They wanted her to obey,

but her heartbeat

was a drum.

She was not made of glass —

she was made of light,

refracting pain

into something beautiful.

Now when she walks,

the ground remembers.

When she speaks,

walls tremble.

And when she loves herself,

the world changes shape.

She was never waiting to be saved.

She was learning

she could save herself.

Not a queen,

not a saint—

but a storm with soft hands.

A flame that heals

and burns

and blooms.

She was her own revolution.