I used to think healing
meant forgetting,
meant burying the past
like it never lived in me.
But I’ve learned
it means remembering without breaking.
It means growing
from the ashes,
not pretending there was never fire.

I don’t need closure from her.
I gave it to myself.
No apology,
no explanation,
just the quiet truth
that some people are chapters
not endings.

The mirror looks different now.
Not because I changed overnight,
but because I finally see
someone worth choosing
even if no one else does.

There’s strength in starting over.
There’s power in soft things
that refuse to stay broken.
And I’ve carried my scars
like seeds,
planted them deep,
and watched something bloom
where pain once lived.

This is not a rebound.
Not a distraction.
Not a mask.

This is me,
unlearning the ache,
rebuilding the soul,
making space
for a love that feels like home
without having to beg for the key.

So here I stand
not with regret,
but with grace.
Not with wounds,
but with roots.

This is where I begin again.
Not because I lost her,
but because I finally
found myself.