I am often criticized by those who think they know better. They say I will never get anywhere. That I am not smart enough, not bright enough.

They tear apart my writing.
Tell me if I work harder, maybe I’ll be almost good enough.

But I know better.
There is a fire in me that speaks with certainty: I am a great writer.

They pick apart my face, my skin, my presence.
They say I’m not beautiful. That I’m flawed.
That I must fix myself, shrink myself, polish myself just to be seen.

But I was born radiant.
I am beauty in its rawest, most powerful form.

They scrutinize my body.
Say I should mold myself into their ideal—if I just starve, strain, sweat enough.

But I already embody power.
My weight is not a flaw. It is mine. It is perfect.

They say I don’t know how to love.
That I must earn the right to be loved in return.

But I do know love.
It pulses through every word I speak, every gesture I offer.
My love is real. Fierce. Honest. Whole.

They try to break me with their words.
To silence me. Shame me. Diminish me.

But still—I rise.

They look at me and see a list of flaws.
But I am a force. A woman with endless depth and unstoppable strength.

I walk with my head high.
I carry the weight of this world—and still, I rise