Could I have ever come to this me 
without all I’ve been through? 

The ache, the surrender, 
the nights I thought might break me... 
they didn’t. 
They carved something open instead. 

Not wide. Not dramatic. 
But soft. 
A gentle blooming I didn’t even notice at first. 
Like how the sky shifts just before dawn, 
quietly, steadily, 
until suddenly 
everything is light. 

And maybe this is part of aging.
But if it is, it’s the sacred part.
The becoming.
The remembering.
The loosening of what was never mine to carry.

I catch myself knowing things now,
not facts, but truths.
The kind you can’t prove
but feel deep in your bones,
like when a storm is coming,
or when someone’s lying,
or when the universe whispers, “Now.”

I run my fingers through my hair,
those silver threads glint like tiny ribbons of memory.
Wisdom highlights, they say.
And I laugh.
Because maybe, finally,
I’m wearing my becoming on the outside too.

And it feels right.
Not finished, not flawless,
just right.
Like a story still being written
by someone who’s finally
not afraid of the ending.