The Quiet Miracle of Becoming

No trumpet sounded

when she woke before dawn,

shouldered the weight of a home,

and stitched meals from modest things.

No one clapped

as she folded years into laundry,

wrung out sorrow beside the sink,

and wiped her hands on a silence

she wore like an apron.

She was not a headline.

Not the echo of any grand tale.

But she was a beginning

made of quiet revolutions.

A girl who learned to bite her tongue

until it bled patience.

A woman who buried her dreams

beneath the roots of ours.

She never spoke of legacy.

But we live in it—

in every lullaby she hummed

instead of resting,

in every seed she planted

not knowing if she'd see it bloom.

She became

in the hush of daily offerings:

a cup of tea poured with care,

a glance that held a storm back,

a whispered prayer tucked into folded sheets.

No one taught her

that becoming didn’t need a stage—

that miracles don’t always roar.

Sometimes, they cradle.

Sometimes, they carry.

She became

in pieces and pauses,

in strength passed down

through blood and gesture,

until one day we stood on the path

she paved without a map.

And we began,

not from nothing,

but from her.

From every unseen act

of fierce, quiet love.

This—

this is the quiet miracle of becoming.

Not loud.

Not noticed.

But essential.

Eternal.

Enough.