There are entire chapters of my youth written in fog,

pages soft around the edges, blurred by time and heavy weather.

I grew up learning how to navigate the quiet,

searching for light in the sanctuary of classrooms,

sheltering in the safety of turning pages,

waiting for the morning bell to tell me I was okay.

Because when the house fell silent, the shadow moved.

In the quiet dark, in the very room where my mother slept,

his hands reached out when no one was looking,

turning a daughter’s sanctuary into a secret warzone.

The doors closed early back then, casting us out into the open

before we were ready, leaving us to build new paths

from the ground up.

For years, I carried that heavy darkness in silence,

holding a past that was too painful for a child to name.

But silence is not peace,

and simply enduring is not the end of the story.

Two years ago, I chose to speak my truth.

I sat with the women of my bloodline,

opened my hands, and laid down the weight

I was never meant to carry alone.

Now, standing in the clear light of my mid-twenties,

I see that every shadow only taught me how to find the sun.

This is not a story about where I came from.

This is the story of how I claimed myself.