21/04/2026
There is a quiet undoing
no one warned me about—
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 interruptions—
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 there—
but softened at the edges,
blurred by something unnamed.
Not older, exactly.
Just… farther away.
Confidence used to live in my bones.
Now it hovers outside me,
like a coat I forgot somewhere
and can’t quite remember how to wear.
There is grief in this—
in losing the ease,
the knowing,
the unthinking way I belonged to myself.
And yet
underneath the unraveling,
something stubborn remains—
a pulse,
a flicker,
a quiet refusal to disappear completely.
Even in this thinning light,
I am here.
Changed, yes.
Uncertain, often.
But still—
somewhere inside the noise—
I am waiting to be found again.
