You are the ache behind the smile,
the storm behind calm hands—
soft-spoken strength
wrapped in quiet defiance.
You’ve bled for things you won’t speak of,
loved past breaking points,
and still—you show up,
heart-first, every time.
You feel too much in a world that numbs,
so you pour it into music,
into stories,
into a glass of red at the end of a long day,
hoping something out there understands
what you don’t say aloud.
You are the keeper of calm in chaos,
the healer who hides her hurt,
the woman who bends but does not break—
though God knows you’ve come close.
Regret shadows you,
but it doesn’t own you.
You wear it like an old scar—
there, but no longer bleeding.
You’ve survived yourself,
and that’s no small thing.
So here you are—
not perfect, not proud of all of it,
but honest, still trying,
still standing.
