What Defines Me

My mental health does not define me.

I am not only my pain,

not only the shadows of trauma

that tried to shape my story.

Yes, I’ve been through storms—

the kind that tear at the roots of a soul.

Childhood scars,

trust broken,

people who used me,

people who tried to write my worth for me.

I’ve walked through postpartum nights,

where anxiety pressed down

and depression whispered that I was not enough.

I’ve faced the weight of relationships

that left me hollow,

memories that surfaced like fire in my veins.

But still—

none of this defines me.

What defines me

is how I rise.

How I take the broken pieces

and build something stronger.

How I choose, again and again,

to meet my urges with skill,

to pause, to breathe,

to resist the pull of falling.

It is not the battles I’ve lost

that make me who I am—

but the thousands of quiet victories,

the moments no one sees,

when I stand on the edge of giving in

and whisper to myself:

not today.

What defines me

is the hope I hold,

the strength I grow,

the future I reach for

with hands that will not give up.

Because I am not my illness.

I am not my wounds.

I am not my fears.

I am the courage

to keep moving forward,

the resilience

to turn my pain into power,

the light

that refuses to go out.