People remember the first wound,
the clean break,
the noise,
the fall that everyone could see.
But pain has a second echo—
the kind that hums beneath the surface,
the grief that whispers,
maybe I’m not the one who gets better.
That thought cuts deeper
than the blade of the first fall,
because it carves into progress itself,
turns hope into something heavy.
Still, here I am
breathing in the aftershock,
holding the pieces,
speaking in a voice that wasn’t supposed to return.
Maybe getting better
was never about climbing higher,
but circling back
with a steadier heart each time.
I am not the one who quit.
I am the one who still tries,
again,
and again,
and again
until the trying itself becomes
its own kind of healing.
Nov 12, 2025
Nov 12, 2025 at 10:26 PM UTC
People remember the first wound,
the clean break,
the noise,
the fall that everyone could see.
But pain has a second echo—
the kind that hums beneath the surface,
the grief that whispers,
maybe I’m not the one who gets better.
That thought cuts deeper
than the blade of the first fall,
because it carves into progress itself,
turns hope into something heavy.
Still, here I am
breathing in the aftershock,
holding the pieces,
speaking in a voice that wasn’t supposed to return.
Maybe getting better
was never about climbing higher,
but circling back
with a steadier heart each time.
I am not the one who quit.
I am the one who still tries,
again,
and again,
and again
until the trying itself becomes
its own kind of healing.