Resilience Wears Soft Shoes #BlogchatterA2Z #poetry

The Quiet Thunder of Becoming

She walks barefoot on the pages of time,
not to leave footprints but to read the echoes.
He once told her,
“The past is a map folded into your chest—
it beats differently when remembered with grace.”
And she believed him,
because belief is sometimes the only bridge
between breaking and blooming.

You are here now.
You have stumbled perhaps—
over stones, over sorrow, over your own shadow.
But that’s alright.
Even shadows kneel when light rises.
So rise, in your way,
quiet or storming, trembling or sure.

I am not always certain either.
There are days my hands forget how to pray,
but they still reach.
There are nights I sew wounds with words
just so I remember that pain has a language—
and so does healing.
Somewhere between the two,
we write poetry.

You, reader, listener, dreamer,
you who once thought the sky was too high,
let me tell you—
the stars bend lower for those who ask softly.

He was a boy who thought thunder meant anger,
until he learned that thunder is what the sky says
when it remembers its own strength.
She was a girl who kept secrets in her socks,
little paper thoughts folded too tightly
to ever fully breathe—until one day they did.
And they flew.

You will fly too, in time.
But first, learn the art of falling gracefully.
There is elegance in descent—
roots grow downward before anything flowers.
The tree does not panic in winter.
It merely waits.

So wait, if waiting is what the moment asks.
Wait with dignity.
Wait with music in your marrow.
Wait as the seed waits for rain
without doubt that it will come.

You are not broken.
You are in process.
No masterpiece ever looked like much in the middle.
Clay, before fire, is just softened earth—
yet it holds the promise of a chalice.

I once saw a bird mend its own wing
using only time, silence, and instinct.
No drama. No declaration.
Just patience and a perch in the sun.
Perhaps healing is less like a miracle
and more like the slow return of breath
you didn’t know you were holding.

He still sings in the shower.
She still dances barefoot in the kitchen.
You still smile at strangers.
These are not small things.
These are rebellions.
Little acts of light that remind the universe
you are not done shining.

Speak to yourself like you are sacred.
Because you are.
No matter who forgot to say it,
or who said the opposite.
Speak kindly, as if your soul
is made of something divine and fragile—
because it is.

The mirror does not lie—
but sometimes it forgets the poetry in your eyes.
So write it there.
With eyeliner. With dreams. With war paint.
Write “I am becoming”
on the edges of your gaze
until your reflection sings it back to you.

They may call you strange.
That’s fine.
Every miracle is strange until it’s understood.
Every star once puzzled the sky.
Every healer once needed healing.
Every lighthouse was once a lonely tower
with no ships in sight.

And when your heart aches again—
because it will—
offer it tea and time.
Tell it:
“You’ve done well to feel so much in a world
that numbs so quickly.”

Let joy find you in the smallest corners:
the perfect toast,
a laugh from someone you thought forgot how,
a bird daring gravity again,
your name written right.
Do not wait for joy to wear formal clothes.
It often arrives in slippers.

I believe in you.
Not in the shallow motivational quote way.
But in the real way.
The way roots believe in the seed
long before it touches sky.
The way rivers believe in their mouth
even as they pass jagged rocks.

The day will come—
when you wake up and forget
why you were afraid of your own fire.
And the world will thank you
for not giving up the night before.

You, gentle warrior, radiant soul,
you who listens with heart-widened ears,
you who picks up every shattered piece of the world
and still remembers how to hum—
you are the song.

So keep singing.
Even when the audience is silence.
Even when your own voice cracks
like a glacier breaking into truth.

Love louder.
Forgive like rain forgives dust.
Breathe as if each inhale
was a signature on the page of life
saying “I am still here.”

And oh—what a beautiful here it is.
Not because it’s perfect,
but because it’s yours.
And you made it.
One tear, one smile, one stubborn step at a time.

So here’s to the next sunrise,
to the scent of becoming
rising like steam from your morning cup.
To hope served warm.
To you, exactly as you are:
unfinished, unstoppable, beloved.

#Resilience #PoetryOfBecoming #Encouragement #HealingJourney #InnerStrength #HopeInWords #SoftRebellion #PoetryThatHeals #SelfLoveLetters #SpiritualPoetry #YouAreEnough #WordsThatHug

I’m participating in #BlogchatterA2Z