21/04/2026
There is a quiet undoing
no one warned me aboutโ
not the loud kind of grief
with casseroles and condolences,
but a slow dimming
behind my own eyes.
I misplace words first,
then certainty,
then the woman who used to walk into rooms
without rehearsing her worth.
My body, once fluent,
now speaks in interruptionsโ
heat rising like panic,
sleep slipping through my fingers,
a rhythm I trusted
turning strange, unreliable.
I look in the mirror
and she is still thereโ
but softened at the edges,
blurred by something unnamed.
Not older, exactly.
Justโฆ farther away.
Confidence used to live in my bones.
Now it hovers outside me,
like a coat I forgot somewhere
and canโt quite remember how to wear.
There is grief in thisโ
in losing the ease,
the knowing,
the unthinking way I belonged to myself.
And yet
underneath the unraveling,
something stubborn remainsโ
a pulse,
a flicker,
a quiet refusal to disappear completely.
Even in this thinning light,
I am here.
Changed, yes.
Uncertain, often.
But stillโ
somewhere inside the noiseโ
I am waiting to be found again.