I was the echo in an empty room,
a shadow unloved by the light,
the prayer that faltered mid-breath—
half hope, half hush.

Grief wore me like a second skin,
and silence knew my name
better than joy ever dared to.
Every yes lost in the valley of no.

But grace—
it did not shout.
It came like morning
spilling gold on ruin,
steady as the hand
that cupped my cracked spirit
and called it whole.

I did not climb out.
I was carried.
Through muck and memory,
through the ache of again,
through the questions
that bruised my faith
but could not break it.

Now,
I stand—not tall, but steady—
not without scars,
but with story.
Held not because I held on,
but because Love never let go.