She becomes
She is not what was done to her.
Not the empty spaces she had to live without,
not the ghosts she carried in the quiet,
not the war she never asked to fight.
She is what survived.
What rose.
What kept breathing when the air was thick with doubt,
what stood when every voice said,
stay down.
She does not rebuild.
She does not return to what was.
She does not gather the broken pieces
like a woman trying to stitch herself
back into a shape that no longer fits.
She lets it burn.
Every version of her that was made small.
Every chapter that tried to convince her
she was not enough on her own.
Every hand that ever held her
only to let go.
She does not rebuild.
She becomes.
She becomes the kind of woman
who does not wait to be chosen.
Who does not shrink herself to be understood.
Who does not mistake softness for surrender.
She becomes the woman
who laughs louder,
who sleeps deeper,
who walks into rooms
without bracing for impact.
She becomes the woman
who no longer asks, Who am I without them?
but instead, whispers—
Finally, I am.
- Ashley