This week, the storm almost took me.
It roared through the quiet hours,
threaded itself through my chest,
and whispered that I was too tired,
too small,
too broken to stay.
By Friday, I was a breath away from unraveling.
The world felt sharp at the edges,
and I was slipping through my own fingers.
But then —
Joel placed a necklace in my hands.
Not just silver and chain,
but an anchor.
A quiet reminder:
You are loved here.
You are wanted here.
You are still here.
Tilly’s laughter wrapped itself around the hollows in my heart.
We played games.
We piled small joys in the corners of the house,
where sorrow had been sitting.
And somewhere in the middle of her light,
I found a little of my own.
I cleared the room that had been weighing on me,
ten bags of old ghosts carried away,
space made for air,
for breath,
for life.
And now,
a long weekend with Joel waits at my door.
Not because I’ve been healed,
but because I am healing.
Not because the storm is gone,
but because I chose — again and again — to stay through it.
Survival, I’m learning,
isn’t always a triumphant roar.
Sometimes it’s a trembling whisper:
I’m still here.