We learn early how to survive—
by hiding our hunger,
by quieting our need to be seen.
We call it strength,
but it’s really the art of vanishing in plain sight.
We shape ourselves to fit,
to please,
to move unnoticed through rooms
that never learned to hold us.
And somewhere between silence and performance,
we begin to forget what real feels like.
But there comes a moment—
a breaking so gentle you almost miss it—
when pretending becomes heavier than fear itself.
The mask cracks,
and through it, breath returns.
Healing begins not in perfection,
but in permission.
The permission to need,
to be seen,
to exist without apology.
True courage is not the armor we wear,
but the heart we reveal.
And in that revealing,
we find something eternal—
a light untouched by recognition,
a freedom born from being wholly,
imperfectly,
beautifully human.