I Rose Slowly, but I Rose

I did not rise like fire,

no sudden blaze of courage,

no applause from the sky.

I rose like dawn—

quiet, unsure,

learning light one second at a time.

My knees trembled

under the weight of yesterday.

Every step forward

carried the echo of falling back.

I was tired,

not of trying,

but of hoping without proof.

The world rushed past me,

calling my pace a weakness,

mistaking slowness for surrender.

They did not see

the storms I crossed

just to stand again.

I healed in pauses.

I gathered strength from silence.

I learned that progress

does not need to be loud

to be real.

Some days,

rising meant only breathing.

Some days,

it meant choosing not to disappear.

And that was enough.

I rose with scars unhidden,

with fear still holding my hand,

with faith that limped

but refused to lie down.

Not fast.

Not perfect.

But honest.

And here I stand—

not above the pain,

not beyond the past—

but stronger than the version of me

that almost stayed broken.

I rose slowly,

yes—

but I rose.