Lately, I've been gentle with myself, taking the time to meet the parts of me I've been at war with. The other day, I sat with the version of me that felt utterly alone. I let her express herself freely – yelling, crying, releasing all the emotions she'd been holding inside. I didn't rush her or tell her to be strong. Instead, I reminded her that she deserves warm words, soft arms, a safe space, and undivided love. Earlier this week, I had a heartfelt conversation with the version of me that savors solitude. We watched the sunset together, and I marveled at the childlike curiosity reflected in her eyes. Her smiles were contagious, and despite the broken pieces that pierced her skin, she exuded confidence. Yet nobody knows that she cries secretly. Yesterday, I met the quieter version of me – the one who tells many stories but rarely shares her own. I listened intently as she whispered her thoughts, and I listened even more closely to her silence. ...
I have made peace with all the women I once was. I have poured incense and honey, layered flowers at their feet. I used to judge and criticize, to tear myself apart, But now I see the beauty in each fragile, fractured heart. I offer kindness and compassion, a gentle, loving touch, Embracing every aspect, every quirk and every clutch. With self-love as my guiding light, I navigate life's twists and turns, Accepting each chapter, each verse, and each lesson that I learn. I am a work of art, a masterpiece in progress, you see, A beautiful, complex, and ever-evolving tapestry