In the War-zone of Self

I am a mosaic of strength, built from pieces of scars and stars, loving fiercely, too fiercely perhaps, and wrapped tight in the armor of over-care. I am not counterfeit, nor a shadowed ghost but real, pulsing with heart and hurt, loving with all that I have, and more than I ever learned how to hold. If I’ve wounded you, those I cherish and call mine, it was never meant in malice, never a blade with intent, only the ripple of choosing myself in a life that once taught me I couldn’t. For I am not just a person but a battlefield, where every breath is a truce or a clash, unlearning the scripts of survival I wore, for too many years, too close to my skin. And so, I stand here, raw and at odds, fighting with ghosts of lessons learned wrong, with the past that etched survival into my bones— apologizing, humbly, to each of you who has felt the tremors of my chaos, my endless undoing. I never meant to be a storm that shakes, to bring the weight of my history to bear on love. I am sorry for the moments I’ve left you uncertain, sorry if my battles spilled onto your shores. But know that I carry hope, a glimmer that one day I’ll be at peace with myself, that the battles within will soften and quiet, and I’ll emerge whole, not a shell, but the true me— the person you know I’m fighting to become. And I hold a dream, a wish wrapped in faith, that each of you will still stand by my side, when I come out the other side of this war, when my chaos has settled into calm. Thank you, each of you, for bearing witness to this storm that crashes and stills, for loving me through the war-zone of myself.