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Part V — Seeds In My Hands

  • Aug 17
  • 1 min read

I assumed the ending would level me. Most endings do. But I kept living. And in the silence after the storm, I realized the world hadn’t ended; just a version of me had.


Letting go didn’t feel noble. It felt inconvenient, humiliating, feral. But somewhere between the grief and the stubborn heartbeat, I started noticing myself again. The parts I’d shelved. The instincts I ignored. The voice I kept muting because love was loud.


I didn’t rise from the ashes; I’m not a phoenix.  I crawled out of them with soot on my face. And when the smoke cleared, all I had left were a few small truths and a pair of hands that finally felt like mine.


I stopped mistaking longing for destiny.


What’s left now is quiet. And possibility. And a handful of seeds I’m not rushing to plant.


I’m learning how to hold myself the way I once held the dream; carefully, completely, without apology.


 
 
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