Twenty-six weeks, a steady tide,
of showing up, of trying, of staying inside
a circle of voices, a rhythm, a frame,
a place where my pain could be spoken by name.
Now the calendar’s quieter, the structure is gone,
and I’m scared of the dark where I’ll practice alone.
No check-ins, no circle, no weekly hello
just me and the skills I’m hoping I know.
I’m grateful, though
deep in my bones I can see
I carry a toolbox that’s travelling with me.
Breath and awareness, distress riding out,
names for my feelings instead of just doubt.
When trauma taps hard on the old hidden doors,
I hope I remember I’ve been here before.
I can pause. I can ground. I can soften the flame.
I don’t have to vanish to get through the shame.
I hope for relationships gentler and true,
With space for a 'me' that is not shrinking you.
I’m learning that freezing and turning to pain
was how I survived, it doesn’t have to remain.
Maybe one day my voice will learn to speak out,
when I ask for my needs without drowning in guilt.
Maybe “no” will be something I’m able to say,
and boundaries will hold, not be washed away.
Self-respect is a muscle, still tender, still new,
But I’m trying to train it - slow reps will do.
This isn’t the ending; it’s just the beginning,
the first careful stitches I’m sewing within me.
Some days will be rough, and I know I may fear
that I’m barely afloat, head just keeping clear.
But I’m choosing to stay. I’m choosing to try.
There are other ways forward - I don’t have to die.
So here’s to the group, and the time, and the trust,
and here’s to myself - for continuing, just.
With skills in my pockets and hope in my view,
I step into next - uncertain, but true.
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 6:59 AM UTC
Twenty-six weeks, a steady tide,
of showing up, of trying, of staying inside
a circle of voices, a rhythm, a frame,
a place where my pain could be spoken by name.
Now the calendar’s quieter, the structure is gone,
and I’m scared of the dark where I’ll practice alone.
No check-ins, no circle, no weekly hello
just me and the skills I’m hoping I know.
I’m grateful, though
deep in my bones I can see
I carry a toolbox that’s travelling with me.
Breath and awareness, distress riding out,
names for my feelings instead of just doubt.
When trauma taps hard on the old hidden doors,
I hope I remember I’ve been here before.
I can pause. I can ground. I can soften the flame.
I don’t have to vanish to get through the shame.
I hope for relationships gentler and true,
With space for a 'me' that is not shrinking you.
I’m learning that freezing and turning to pain
was how I survived, it doesn’t have to remain.
Maybe one day my voice will learn to speak out,
when I ask for my needs without drowning in guilt.
Maybe “no” will be something I’m able to say,
and boundaries will hold, not be washed away.
Self-respect is a muscle, still tender, still new,
But I’m trying to train it - slow reps will do.
This isn’t the ending; it’s just the beginning,
the first careful stitches I’m sewing within me.
Some days will be rough, and I know I may fear
that I’m barely afloat, head just keeping clear.
But I’m choosing to stay. I’m choosing to try.
There are other ways forward - I don’t have to die.
So here’s to the group, and the time, and the trust,
and here’s to myself - for continuing, just.
With skills in my pockets and hope in my view,
I step into next - uncertain, but true.