#personaltransformation
Born from my shadow, not from the radiant sun,
Are the notes I sing, my vibrant pulse.
From that old fear, which made me tremble,
Sprouts the seed of a new song.
Each phantom that dwells at my temple,
Each ancient shadow that tells me "no,"
becomes the ink, the ember, the ground,
for the blank canvas that has finally found its voice.
I do not hide the wound, nor quench the terror.
I look it in the eye, I invite it to my table.
It is the fire that forges the sculptor.
Transforms anguish into a vital promise.
Oh, profound night in which I was imprisoned!
Today you are the guide, the map, the boundary.
I transform the burden into steady flight,
And personal fear teaches me how to live.
Let the monster not be silent; let it be my engine.
Let the ancient doubt propel me to create.
Because in every crack a flower hides,
And my own shadow teaches me to dream.
©️ María Gallardo
Dec 12, 2025
Dec 12, 2025 at 4:20 AM UTC
The days after the fall
felt strangely quiet
not peaceful,
just unfamiliar,
like a body remembering
how to move
without borrowed momentum.
Walking was not natural at first.
My steps were uneven,
too soft, too loud,
as if the earth needed time
to recognize me
standing on my own weight.
Every stride felt like a question.
Every stumble felt like a verdict.
The world watched differently now
not cruel,
but sharp in its curiosity,
testing whether I could rise
without anything holding me up.
And I did fall
hard, often, gracelessly
not because I was weak
but because I was learning
what it meant
to move on legs
I had barely used.
There were days
when the ground seemed to tilt beneath me,
when even the smallest step
felt like an examination
of who I was becoming.
There were moments
I reached for something familiar
to steady myself
a habit,
a shield,
an old reflex
only to find my hands closing
on empty air.
That emptiness
became its own teacher.
With nothing to lean on,
I found balance
in the simple act of trying again.
In the way the body adjusts
after every fall,
quietly, instinctively,
as if it had been waiting
for this chance
to carry its own weight.
The world continued
its quiet tests
each sunrise a new question,
each step a small declaration
that I was not done.
Forward didn’t feel heroic.
It felt honest.
Each movement shaped
by intention rather than armor,
by effort rather than momentum.
And somewhere
in the repetition of falling
and rising
and falling
and rising again,
I discovered
a steadiness
that was finally mine.
Not carried.
Not protected.
Not guided.
Chosen.
Unarmored
Unafraid
And finally awake.
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 5:57 PM UTC