I haven’t cried.
Not when Gran died.
Not this month, even though March always finds the cracks and presses on them until I break.
Usually I fall apart in pieces I can’t control.
Random moments.
Tears that come out of nowhere.
But this time… nothing.
Just quiet.
Just numb.
Like everything in me pressed pause because it was too much to feel all at once.
And then this.
Ink in my skin.
A key.
Wings that look like they’ve been through hell and didn’t come out clean.
And suddenly—
Something shifted.
Not a breakdown.
Not sobbing on the floor.
Just this deep, overwhelming feeling I can’t quite name.
Like my body finally caught up with what I’ve been carrying.
This is mine.
Not the grief.
Not the loss.
The survival.
This is the part of me that didn’t disappear.
The part that stayed.
The part that kept breathing even when everything hurt.
I am not untouched.
I am not whole in the way I used to be.
But I am still here.
Broken in places.
Scarred in others.
But breathing.
Standing.
And ready to fight for my future.
For my family.
For the life I’m still building.
This isn’t where I ended.
This is where I rise.