Before the rising, there was excruciating silence.
A million deaths beneath the skin—unnamed, insistent. Felt keenly, ignored.
Then came the cracking—full, unrelenting—no gentle undoing.
Only the collapse of all self-abandonment once held together.
She watched, relegated to the back seat as mind and soul retreated from the noise.
Choosing solitude over spectacle, self-preservation over appearance,
truth over lies wrapped in selfishness sold as love.
Forced to listen to the quiet—to settle in eternity and view her neglect.
To witness the self that had begged to be seen until its voice was naught but a rasp.
All she thought she was crumbled in a deafening roar leaving only silence.
The more she struggled, the deeper she sank.
Until she let go of who she thought she should be—and became the silence.
Only then could she begin again.
Not with fanfare, but with deliberate breath.
Brick by brick, she rebuilt her tower—not with wood or stone, but marble and gold.
She spoke to no one, performed for no one, shared with no one.
She began in silence, where no eye, no ear, no mouth could tread—in her soul.
Thinking, speaking, and dressing the way her soul now whispered
Moving through rooms with unhurried grace.
Stamping out old ways with vengeance and honoring lines drawn in sand.
Wielding ‘No’ as sword and holding truth as shield.
Saw her body as temple—worth honoring, worth holding, worth loving.
Walked slowly, claiming the ground beneath her.
Spoke softly, words landing like sledgehammers.
Smiling not because she was asked to, but because joy surfaced.
She began being—unapologetically.
No longer begging to be understood, those meant to hear know how to listen.
Not performing her depth, but inhabiting it.
This is not quiet rebellion, as some would accuse.
This is remembrance—that she was fearfully and wonderfully made.
Made to love and to feel, to rise and to claim, to see and be seen.
To speak prophecy and hope, to cradle life at the tip of her tongue.
She walks a path few dare to tread—the path of becoming.
Carrying herself as myth, as mirror, as muse, as creation.
She is becoming.
Photo by Sage Friedman on Unsplash
