Behind the Locked Door

Before I knew freedom,
I knew fear.

Before I found my voice,
I mastered silence.

I learned to read the shadows
before I understood the light,
to recognize tension in a room
before I understood peace.

I became small
not because I was weak,
but because survival
often asked me to disappear.

Behind closed doors,
I carried battles
no one could fully see
anxiety, grief, exhaustion,
and the silent ache
of becoming strong too soon.

Yet even there,
love remained.

In my mother’s sacrifices,
I found devotion.
In her persistence,
I found strength.
In her love,
I found proof
that even in broken places,
goodness could survive.

And when life felt unbearable,
I turned to faith
placing my fears
into God’s hands
when they felt
too heavy for my own.

This is not just a story of pain.
It is a story of endurance.
Of softness preserved
through suffering.
Of healing
still unfolding.

Because I am more
than what hurt me.

I am resilience.
I am faith.
I am survival.
I am healing.
I am becoming.

And though my story
began behind locked doors,
it does not end there.

I am still here.

Still searching.
Still growing.
Still learning
that I deserve
peace, love, safety,
and a life
far greater
than survival alone.