She Watered Her Pain and Called It Growth.

She didn’t bloom overnight.
No, her roots were tangled in ache,
buried deep beneath years
of words unsaid,
fears unwept,
wounds that never got stitches
but still managed to scar.

She cried — not just tears,
but whole rivers
that fed the soil of her silence.
Every heartbreak,
a crack that let the light in.
Every loss,
a pruning she never asked for
but somehow survived.

She watered her pain
with trembling hands,
not knowing it would sprout
into something
alive.

Not pretty, always —
but real.
Twisting, reaching, blooming
on its own terms.
A wild thing
growing from what tried to bury her.

And when they asked
why she smiled with sadness in her eyes,
she said,
“I learned to grow
where nothing was supposed to live.”

She no longer fears the rain.
She is the garden
built from every storm
she never meant to weather.