The Climb Back Into Myself
Past
Time drifted around me, slipping through my fingers,
spinning like a dog chasing a tail it could never catch.
I floated in that familiar sea of uneasiness—
confusion thick as fog, self-worth barely a whisper.
Possibilities clung to the edges of my mind,
lazy, fragile, almost out of reach.
I had pushed limits, done the impossible,
lived through storms most never see—
yet still the whisper called:
Who am I?
Some say it takes a lifetime to know.
I wasn’t sure I had that long.
Present
The breeze carried a song I couldn’t quite decipher.
I gave, I loved, I tried—
but the whispers tugged at the fibers of my being.
Who are you?
I answered the only way I knew:
I am a warrior.
Bound by honor, by family.
I don’t seek the fight—
I protect, I defend, I love.
But even warriors break.
I felt shattered into a million pieces,
no glue, no time, no map to make myself whole again.
Patience, I told myself.
Rebuild.
Find a different way.
Climb slower this time.
More care.
More listening.
But God, I was tired.
My unbendable will had been folded, twisted,
and only now was it beginning to straighten.
Fear crept in—
Can I do this?
I looked up:
I had been three hundred feet from the top,
and now I was back at the bottom.
So tired.
So scared.
But this time, I shed the weight—
ego, pride, doubt, fear, old versions of myself.
If I didn’t let go, I wouldn’t make it.
So I let go.
Even tired.
Even trembling.
I let go.
Future
And then—
the flowers.
Fragile, delicate, beautiful.
Yet somehow they survived everything:
the storms, the frozen nights,
the snow piled six feet high,
the blazing sun.
Every year they rose again,
taller, stronger, more radiant.
Resilient.
Alive.
I cared for them, watched them bloom,
and they taught me what I had forgotten:
love is fragile, yes—
but it is also the strongest thing we grow.
Even when we leave,
love remains in the soil.
It blooms again.
It carries forward.
It becomes the proof that nothing beautiful
is ever truly lost.
So I climb again—
slower, steadier,
with more care, more humility, more heart.
Because like those flowers,
I am learning that no matter the storm,
I can grow again.
I can bloom again.
And love—
the love I give, the love I’ve known—
will always rise with me.
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