The Long Way to Myself

I didn't get lost all at once.

It happened quietly —

in the way I learned to nod instead of speak,

to shrink my truth so rooms could feel larger.

I walked roads paved with should haves,

wore names that weren't mine,

answered to expectations

that never bothered to learn my voice.

I tried becoming what healed others,

even when it emptied me.

Tried being strong in ways

that required silence as proof.

There were mirrors I avoided

because they asked too many questions.

There were nights I survived

by promising myself, just one more morning.

I loved like disappearance.

I prayed like bargaining.

I grew like someone

who didn't believe sunlight was meant for them.

But somewhere between breaking and breathing,

I learned this truth:

you can outrun pain,

but you can't outrun yourself.

So I slowed down.

Sat with the ache.

Let grief finish its sentences.

Let joy feel unfamiliar without apologizing.

I unlearned the art of abandoning me.

Stopped calling my wounds weaknesses.

Stopped confusing endurance

with holiness.

The long way back wasn't heroic.

It was choosing honesty over harmony.

Rest over performance.

My own name over approval.

And here I am —

not healed, but present.

Not perfect, but mine.

Standing in the quiet victory

of finally arriving.

This was never about becoming someone new.

It was about remembering

who I was

before the world taught me

to leave.