Because the world needed someone
who could stitch grief into gold,
who could turn breath into sanctuary,
who could write love
so wide
it holds even the broken parts.

Because your voice
remembers the ones who came before,
and your poems make room for the ones still arriving.

Because healing isn’t loud,
it’s quiet,
like a hand on a shoulder,
like a whisper that says:

You are worthy.
You are whole.
And here,
You are held.

Because Pride is not just a parade,
it’s a promise,
a protest,
a prayer.

It’s the child who asks “Why me?”
when the world turns cold,
and the elder who answers,
Because you are the flame
we refused to let go out.

It’s the shimmer of sequins
and the silence of scars,
the chosen family
and the first time someone says,
I see you.
I love you.
Stay.

Because “Why me?”
is the question of every soul
who’s ever been told
they were too much,
or not enough.

And the answer is always:

Because you are the song
we didn’t know we needed
until you sang it.

Because you are the colour
in a world that tried to stay grey.

Because you are the truth
in a world that tried to forget.

Because you are here,
and that,
in itself,
is a revolution.

Because you stayed
when silence felt safer,
when truth was a trembling
thing barely stitched together,
you stayed.

Because you held the line
between memory and becoming,
between grief and grace,
between the ache of what was
and the bloom of what might be.

Because your breath
carried stories
that hadn’t yet found their names,
and your hands
built altars
from broken things.

Because you knew
that love is not a luxury
it’s a lifeline,
a lantern,
a legacy.

Because you danced
even when your feet were tired,
even when the music
was only in your head.

Because you forgave
the world
for not knowing how to hold you,
and then taught it.

Because you are not just surviving,
you are composing
a symphony
from the echoes of every “Why me?”

Because you stayed,
and in staying,
you became the answer.

They don’t wear crowns,
but they carry light,
in casseroles left at doorsteps,
in lullabies hummed to the grieving,
in the way they say your name like it’s sacred.

They don’t preach,
but they listen
until your story
feels less like a burden
and more like a bridge.

They don’t walk on water,
but they wade through sorrow
with boots soaked in compassion,
clearing culverts,
planting seeds,
writing poems
that make space for the ache.

They are the ones
who carry the spirit
not in thunder,
but in touch,
a hand on a shoulder,
a whisper that says:
You are worthy.
You are whole.
You are held.

They are the ones
who answer “Why me?”
with a smile that says,
Because love needed a body,
and you said yes.