Writers 
She walks into rooms like nothing weighs her down,
like her shoulders were built for holding up the sky,
but no one sees the nights she wears a different crown,
the quiet hours she spends just learning how to try.
She smiles through meetings, through deadlines, through demands,
she answers every call like her strength has no end,
but no one knows the trembling hidden in her hands,
the silent prayers she whispers, the battles she must mend.
She carries mountains folded neatly in her chest,
she carries unspoken griefs beneath her steady walk,
she gives the world her sunlight, saves the storms for rest,
she gives her patience freely, keeps her pain in private talk.
She is the one they lean on when their own world start to break,
the one who fixes, holds, and never asks for praise,
but even mountains crumble from the weight that others make,
even the strongest spirits need their own gentle days.
So if you see her weary, if you catch her growing thin,
remind her she is human, not a fortress built to stand alone,
remind her that her softness is not a crack, not a sin,
remind her she deserves the peace she's always freely shown.
For she has carried others through their darkest, hardest fall,
she has held their broken pieces, never asking to be seen,
but she, too, is a mountain, magnificent and tall,
and even mountains need a moment to simply just be.
Let her rest. Let her breathe. Let her set the weight aside.
She has given all her strength to hold the world together —
now let someone hold her gently, let someone be her guide,
let someone carry her the way she's carried them forever.