We are galaxies wrapped in human skin,
Infinite and diverse
Short, tall, curved, angular,
Painted in every shade beneath the sun.
We carry stories like hidden constellations,
Symphonies unheard by casual ears.
Mothers, creators, dreamers, doers
More than the roles they give us.
Some wear scrubs that heal,
Some don suits that lead,
Some wrap aprons around quiet dreams
But always, there is more beneath the surface.
We are silent strategists,
Mapping emotions with a glance,
Untangling life’s knots with quiet magic.
We repair not only what has been broken.
We restore what is unseen.
We write novels at midnight,
Teach yoga or calculus with equal grace.
We climb walls others fear facing,
And drive highways under moonlit skies.
They see simplicity where we hold storms,
Calm exteriors hiding infinite layers.
Mother. Worker. Wife.
Labels are too small for the worlds we contain.
Stop. Look closer. Listen deeply.
We are not just women
We are universes waiting to be discovered,
Galaxies hidden in plain sight,
Architects of futures yet unwritten.