When the shadows press against my chest, and my breath feels borrowed, I remind myself: I have been here before and still, I rose.
Anxiety whispers, depression lingers, but neither has ever stolen the quiet flame inside me.
I am not the storm, I am the girl who survives it. I am not the silence, I am the breath that breaks it.
Even here, even now, when the night feels endless, I am still here, still breathing, still held by God.
And that is enough.
β Sela π
For the nights when sadness doesnβt crash loudly but slips in like a shadow, unannounced. This poem speaks to the quiet way heaviness can settle in the heart, not in storms, but in whispers, and the search for light when it feels hidden.