The Art of Becoming Whole

A poem about rediscovering yourself after breaking. For those learning to heal, forgive, and love the person in the mirror again.

I used to chase perfection—

as if wholeness was a prize

handed to the unbroken.

But healing taught me

that beauty hums in the broken edges,

that peace comes quietly

after the storm has forgotten your name.

There were nights

I stitched myself together

with trembling hands,

using threads made of memory

and forgiveness.

Some seams still ache—

but they hold.

I learned that growth

isn’t loud.

It’s in the morning you rise

without resentment,

in the breath you take

without fear.

Self-love is not a mirror—it’s a garden.

You water it daily,

even when nothing blooms.

You trust that something beneath the soil

is still becoming.

I am no longer chasing light—

I am the light that stayed,

even when everything dimmed.

Now I walk slower,

but I walk free.

I’ve made peace with my pace,

with the parts that still shake,

with the heart that still remembers pain

but no longer bows to it.

To heal

is to return to yourself

as if you were coming home—

and realizing you never truly left.