The Quiet Miracle

There is a moment
somewhere between breaking and becoming
where a person learns their own name again.

It doesn’t happen loudly.
Growth never does.
It rises slowly,
like dawn sneaking past the curtains
on a morning you didn’t think you’d survive.

You notice it only in flashes—
in the way your voice stops apologizing
for taking up space,
in the way your heart begins to trust
that it still deserves softness,
in the way you say no
without swallowing the word
on the way out.

You have been remade
a hundred times already.
Not by perfection,
but by persistence—
by tiny rebellions against the gravity
that once held you down.

And still,
you rise.

You rise in silence,
in trembling steps,
in the soft ache of trying again
after the world convinced you not to.

You rise because something inside you
refuses to disappear—
a stubborn spark,
a last small light,
a whisper that says:
There is more to you than the hurt.

So breathe.
Stand where your old shadows
said you couldn’t.

Because you—
yes, you—
are the quiet miracle
you’ve been searching for.