There is a silence we forget exists,
a place beyond clapping hands or pointed words.
It is not loud enough to own a name,
not soft enough to demand our attention.
When someone builds you a throne with compliments,
or tears you down with sharp-edged syllables,
this silence does not flinch, does not bow.
It remains, steadfast, like gravity beneath your feet.
The world will sing your praises until
you mistake the tune for your own heartbeat,
or whisper doubts so heavy, they echo
inside your ribs and call it truth.
But if humility is your home, you learn
not to build with borrowed bricks,
not to crumble under borrowed weight.
Praise becomes wind passing through your hair,
Criticism becomes the same. Neither own you.
You, untouched by the storm or the sun—
simply standing, your feet firmly planted,
unchanged, but growing sturdier with every breath.