I wake slowly to the feeling that perhaps all is not lost.
The ache remains, yes, but it no longer defines the edges of my world.
I notice the soft glimmers between shadows the way sunlight falls through cracks in the window,
the gentle hum of life outside that refuses to pause for my sorrow.
I have begun to see that brokenness is not absence.
It is a form of existence in itself, a testament to endurance, to survival,
to having carried wounds without letting them extinguish me entirely.
The jagged edges of my soul, once sharp and threatening, now feel like the outline of something rare,
a mosaic shaped by pain but held together by an invisible grace.
There are moments when I still stumble.
Old fears rise uninvited, whispering that I am fragile,
that the pieces I cling to may scatter at any moment.
But even in those moments, I learn patience with myself.
I learn that to honor the brokenness is not to glorify it,
but to acknowledge that it exists and does not diminish my worth.
I start to seek light intentionally.
Not in grand gestures, not in the promises of others,
but in the small acts that remind me of my own capacity to feel,
to care, to laugh, to be kind.
I plant seeds of self-love in quiet corners of my heart,
tend to them gently, and marvel at how something so fragile can grow resilient.
I am discovering that waiting does not have to be passive.
Waiting can be intentional a deliberate space where reflection, courage, and tenderness reside.
I do not wait for someone to fix me, to complete me, or to see me as whole.
I wait for life itself to teach me how to navigate the fragments,
how to honor the cracks without letting them define me.
And still, I hope.
I hope for connection, for understanding, for a hand that fits beside mine
not because it must, but because it chooses to.
I hope for laughter that warms me from the inside out,
and for moments when the weight I carry feels lighter simply because someone walks with me.
But most of all, I hope for myself.
That I may see my own worth,
that I may cradle my own pieces with gentleness,
and that I may recognize that even in brokenness, I am complete enough to be loved, to love, and to exist fully.
I am learning to hold my own hand,
to cherish my own light,
and to trust that beauty is not a measure of perfection,
but of courage, persistence, and the willingness to keep standing even when shattered.
Until the world catches up to the rhythm of my heart,
I remain here, growing steadily, softly,
a broken piece learning that mending is not erasing,
that hope can exist alongside scars,
and that I, in all my fragments, am enough.
~akyedepa ❤️