Unbroken

I see you.

Not just the way the world does—

not just the strong, resilient woman who stands tall despite the weight of it all—

but you. The child who was never chosen,

the girl who was passed from hand to hand,

like she was never meant to belong anywhere at all.

I see the scars, the ones carved by hands that should have held you gently,

the wounds left by voices that should have spoken love but only knew how to break.

I see the nights you spent convincing yourself you weren’t worth keeping,

that love was a fleeting thing meant for others, but never for you.

I see you. And I love you.

Not just the pieces you think are easy to hold,

not just the strength you wear like armor—

but the parts you hide, the fears that whisper late at night,

the moments when the world feels too heavy,

when running seems easier than staying,

when your past tries to convince you that you are still that girl.

But you are not.

You are here, breathing, standing, fighting.

You have lost more than most can fathom,

buried pieces of your heart beside every goodbye,

yet somehow, you still rise.

You wake up, you go to work, you push forward.

Even after the wreck that should have taken you,

even after the love that betrayed you,

even after the hands that hurt instead of held.

And I know—I know—that I cannot carry the weight of your past,

cannot rewrite the pages that were stolen from you.

But I can stand beside you as you write the next ones.

Because life is not just work, sleep, and waiting for the next loss.

It is late-night drives with the windows down,

sunsets that paint the sky just for you,

laughter so raw it makes your ribs ache.

It is love—not the kind that chains you,

but the kind that sets you free.

And I will love you through every storm,

through every doubt, through every piece of you

that still questions if love can stay.

You are not broken.

You are becoming.

And I will be here, hand in hand,

as we step into everything the world still has to give.