you are sitting at a table
with a bowl of gold in front of you,
and you are so busy looking for
the fruit you haven’t grown yet
that you forget you are
the one who planted the tree.
you tell me you’re behind,
that you’re a ghost of who you
were supposed to be by now.
you move the goalpost
until it’s just a blur on the horizon,
convinced that because
everything isn't perfect,
nothing counts.
but two years ago,
you were a girl who didn't want
to see the sunrise.
two years ago, the weight of the sky
felt like it would crush the citrus
right out of your spirit.
you didn’t want to be alive,
and now—
right now—
you are.
and that has to be the biggest thing
anyone has ever done.
you’re standing in the middle
of a life you once begged for.
the girl you were two years ago
would look at you now,
peeling an orange on a random Tuesday,
and her jaw would be on the floor.
not because you’ve fixed everything,
but because you’re here to see it.
she wouldn't care about
the "more" you’re chasing;
she would be in awe
that your hands are still warm,
that the scissors are just a tool
for the fruit and nothing else.
the things that used to be unbearable
are now just things.
the fog has cleared enough
to let the morning in.
you don't give yourself credit
for the miracle of waking up
when your brain spent all night
telling you to stay under.
so maybe you aren't
everything you want to be today,
but you are everything
you prayed to be two years ago.
you are a living, breathing
collection of gold apologies
to the version of you
who thought she wouldn't make it.
the juice is running down your wrist.
you're staying.
and i am so, so proud of you
for the mess you’re still here to make.
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 9:18 PM UTC
you are sitting at a table
with a bowl of gold in front of you,
and you are so busy looking for
the fruit you haven’t grown yet
that you forget you are
the one who planted the tree.
you tell me you’re behind,
that you’re a ghost of who you
were supposed to be by now.
you move the goalpost
until it’s just a blur on the horizon,
convinced that because
everything isn't perfect,
nothing counts.
but two years ago,
you were a girl who didn't want
to see the sunrise.
two years ago, the weight of the sky
felt like it would crush the citrus
right out of your spirit.
you didn’t want to be alive,
and now—
right now—
you are.
and that has to be the biggest thing
anyone has ever done.
you’re standing in the middle
of a life you once begged for.
the girl you were two years ago
would look at you now,
peeling an orange on a random Tuesday,
and her jaw would be on the floor.
not because you’ve fixed everything,
but because you’re here to see it.
she wouldn't care about
the "more" you’re chasing;
she would be in awe
that your hands are still warm,
that the scissors are just a tool
for the fruit and nothing else.
the things that used to be unbearable
are now just things.
the fog has cleared enough
to let the morning in.
you don't give yourself credit
for the miracle of waking up
when your brain spent all night
telling you to stay under.
so maybe you aren't
everything you want to be today,
but you are everything
you prayed to be two years ago.
you are a living, breathing
collection of gold apologies
to the version of you
who thought she wouldn't make it.
the juice is running down your wrist.
you're staying.
and i am so, so proud of you
for the mess you’re still here to make.
