My Life In Word

She wakes before the world is ready and carries the day anyway.
She learns early how to hold two truths at once: strength and softness, fear and resolve.
She becomes fluent in adaptation—not because she wants to, but because life keeps asking.
She is not extraordinary because she never breaks.
She is extraordinary because she does—and still shows up.
Still laughs. Still loves. Still chooses to care in a world that profits from her silence.
She knows the cost of being accommodating and the risk of refusing.
She edits herself for safety, then unlearns that habit slowly, painfully.
She practices saying no without apology and yes without explanation.
She holds generations in her body—lessons passed through glances, warnings whispered, courage inherited.
She becomes a refuge for others even while learning how to rest herself.
She is both unfinished and enough.
If you listen closely, you will hear it:
not just what she endures,
but what she imagines into being.
Still, she is here.
Still, she matters.
Still, she is becoming.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Bibek Maharjan on Unsplash

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