Writers 
I spent years apologizing for taking up too much space,
folding myself smaller to fit rooms that weren't my size,
measuring my worth by the reflection in someone else's face,
searching for my value in the mirror of their eyes.
I criticized my softness, I criticized my scars,
I called my healing "slow" instead of calling it "still real,"
I compared my quiet chapters to somebody else's stars,
forgetting that my story had its own right to feel.
But somewhere in the tired nights of never being enough,
I found a whisper waiting, patient, soft, and true,
reminding me that loving myself isn't always easy or smooth,
but it is the quiet revolution I was always meant to do.
So I am learning to speak kinder to the girl inside my chest,
to forgive her for the moments she didn't know any better,
to hold her through her failures, to help her simply rest,
to write her love letters instead of a list of things to change or fetter.
I am learning that my body is not a debt I owe the world,
that my feelings are not too much, they are simply, honestly mine,
that the softness I once hid is not a flaw to be curled
into silence, but a strength I'm allowed to let shine.
I am learning to celebrate the parts of me I used to hide,
the awkward laugh, the tender heart, the dreams I thought too bold,
I am learning that self-love isn't vanity or pride,
it's simply coming home to myself, gently, patiently, whole.
So today I choose me — not perfectly, not without my fears,
but honestly, slowly, one gentle moment at a time,
I choose to be my own safe place through all my growing years,
I choose to love the woman that I'm learning to define.