there was a time i buried every version of me that didn’t look like survival. the soft one loud one who cried too easily wanted to stay. called it growth — but grief dressed in progress. because healing i’ve learned isn’t victory march. it’s homecoming. setting long table your chest and inviting ghost you were sit eat again. angry child heartbroken believer swore they’d never trust light again all them are mine. holy. when they finally speak each other storm quiets. realize wholeness about becoming something new remembering broken only scattered. ??