Still, I rise

There were days

the road disappeared,

days when every step

felt like walking through mud

with stones in both hands.

Still, I moved.

They said, “Why bother?”

They said, “It’s too late.”

They said, “Be realistic,”

as if dreams were a luxury

only some people deserved.

But something small inside me

refused to sit down.

It showed up

in shaky first attempts,

in quiet mornings

when no one was watching,

in every tiny promise

I kept to myself.

Some nights,

hope was only a flicker,

a tired candle in a loud storm,

but I cupped my hands around it

and waited for the wind to pass.

I have lost count

of the times I had to start again,

the drafts I erased,

the plans that broke,

the doors that closed

so hard it hurt my ribs.

Yet here I am.

Not because it was easy,

not because the path was kind,

but because each time I fell,

I let myself rest,

then chose to stand.

This is how I refuse to give up:

By taking one more breath.

By trying one more time.

By believing that even slow progress

is still progress.

And every time the world

whispers “quit” in my ear,

I answer, quietly but firmly,

“Watch me continue.”