Iron In My Veins

I’ve been broken open, left bleeding in the dark corners of my own life, learning the language of silence because nobody stayed long enough to hear the scream.

I’ve been told to shrink—to be softer, smaller, to fold my edges down like paper cuts.

But the truth is, my edges are the only reason I survived.

I am the bruise that healed into armor,

the scar that glittered instead of faded.

Every betrayal stitched me together tighter, every loss carved space

for a stronger version of me to stand in.

Resilience isn’t pretty.

It’s not a sunrise Instagrammed to perfection.

It’s waking up after three sleepless nights with eyes that still burn, yet refusing to bow.

It’s saying, I’m not fine—but walking forward anyway, because “fine” was never the point.

Self-worth isn’t a gift they hand you.

It’s a war you fight inside your own chest.

It’s looking in the mirror, seeing the wreckage, and still whispering—you deserve more than this.

And overcoming?

That’s not a finish line.

It’s not a medal or a moment.

It’s a choice I keep making every damn day: to get up, to keep breathing, to remember that my story isn’t just what broke me—it’s what I built from the ruins.

So call me stubborn, call me a storm,

call me a survivor—but understand this:

I am not the tragedy.

I am the aftermath.

And the aftermath is alive.