Silent Armour.

There are stories

we never quite tell,

but carry in our posture,

in the way we smile too quickly,

apologize too often,

or work a little harder

than our bodies can bear.

Some of us grew up in places

where love had rules.

Not written down,

but known by heart.

Where silence was safety,

and gratitude was expected—

even in pain.

We were taught to honour

what came before us,

to wear our reverence like skin,

even when it itched.

And we did.

We still do.

We remember the good.

The warm meals,

the quiet sacrifices,

the moments that felt almost like love.

But there were shadows too.

Places we weren’t allowed to name.

Questions we learned not to ask.

Versions of ourselves

we had to hide to belong.

Now, we navigate the world

with quiet grace,

still trying to be enough—

not for them anymore,

but for the mirror.

Some days, we long for rest

that doesn’t feel like failure.

Love that doesn’t need translation.

Joy that doesn’t ask permission.

And maybe—

we’re learning to give those things

to ourselves first.

Hoping.

Praying.

For celebration.

Not just in this life,

but in the quiet grace

of our final rest.