The Breaking

There was a time in my life
where my world would break open
without warning,
without a whisper,
not a tremor,
but a sudden, merciless breaking,
a shockwave that traveled through the air
and struck my body before my mind became aware.

The Storm that Walked didn’t creep.
It burst, a sudden, merciless eruption,
a force that hurled itself into the room
and chased me through narrow places
where my breath turned sharp
and hope hid behind my ribs, as they rang with pain
like struck metal.

And those who should have reached to rescue me
pressed themselves into the walls,
eyes lowered, as if looking up
might wake something worse,
their hearts locked behind fear.
Their quiet indifference fell over me like ash,
soft and suffocating,
teaching me that silence was the only shield I would receive.

So I learned to fold myself into shapes that hurt to hold.
I learned to carry sorrow like a bruise beneath the skin,
tender to the touch,
hidden from the world.
I learned to swallow every cry before it reached the air.

The Descent

But the weight of that quiet dragged me under.
I sank into a darkness,
a divine numbness that promised escape, only if
I let it take everything from me.

And so, for a time…

I did.

I fell so far.

I forgot the sound of my own voice.
I forgot the warmth of morning.
I forgot that a heart could beat for anything other than surviving.

The Light

But then…

light.

Thin as a filament, yet unbreakable.
It came from small hands that reached for me with a courage I had never been given.
My children’s voices rose like a hymn in the ruins of my chest,
reminding me I was still here,
still needed,
still loved,
still worth pulling from the dark.

Then others gathered,
kind souls carved by their own storms,
voices shaped by their own nights,
hearts that recognized
the quiet kind of breaking I carried inside my heart.

They didn’t rescue me.
They stood beside me
and encouraged me
until I learned how to rise.

The Rising

Piece by trembling piece, I climbed back into myself.
Addiction loosened its grip.
Hope stitched itself into the torn places.
I learned to breathe without apology,
to speak without shrinking,
to stand without shaking.

But monsters don’t vanish.
They linger in the shadows.

The Last Storm

And one day, the Storm that Walked showed itself,
erupting again, in a final, furious blaze…
one last attempt to reclaim the fear I had finally laid down.

Instinctively, I reached for the ones who long ago promised shelter,
but they froze in familiar choreography
of old terror,
eyes down,
breath thin,
still believing silence would save them.

Their stillness was its own kind of wound…
a grief so old it felt like coming home,
a place I never wanted to see again.

The Stand

But I was no longer the one who folded,
who dutifully complied and packed her voice away.

I stood in the doorway of my own reclaimed life
and I did not move aside.
I held my ground with a strength forged
from every time I survived without a witness.

And in that moment, I understood.
I had already saved myself,
long before the Storm that Walked made its last attempt,
long before its last roar…
long before their last retreat.

The Becoming

I walked forward…
not untouched,
not unscarred,
but unclaimed.

My children’s light beside me.
My own light blazing within me.
The strength of those who rose with me still echoing in my bones.

And the Storm That Walked dwindled…
smaller now, still shrinking behind me,
powerless in the radiance I built
from every broken piece of myself.

I am the grief that learned to heal.

I am the shame that chose to forgive.

I am the song the sky sings after the storm clouds clear.

I am the victory that no one else earned for me.

And no Storm will ever silence me again.