A Soul’s Reclamation

You— who once begged for crumbs and called it connection,

who twisted yourself into soft silence and still weren't heard— this is for you.

You— who waited by the door for a return that never knew how to knock,

who clung to memory as if it were prophecy— this is for you.

You are no longer the ache.

You are the altar.

You are no longer the longing.

You are the vine that winds upward toward her own sky.

Let every echo of "not enough" turn to ash at your feet.

Let every ghost of grasping be laid to rest.

It is time to call your power home.

It is time to call your name back.

Speak it NOW: "I do not chase. I root. I rise. I receive."

Let your body believe it.

Let your soul breathe it.

Let your future unfold in the image of the woman who no longer waits to be chosen—

because she remembered she was the one the stars wrote about all along.

A SHORT REFLECTION…

There is a particular grief in realizing how long you bent yourself toward something that was never going to hold you. Not because you were broken—but because you were looking for home in a place that hadn't learned how to be one.

This poem was written for the version of you who kept waiting. Who kept softening, kept hoping, kept translating your needs into something small enough not to frighten anyone away. Who called that love. Who called that enough.

It wasn't.

And the work now—the real alchemy—is not to harden. It's not to build walls where there were once open windows. It's to come home to yourself so fully that you stop mistaking absence for devotion.

Reclamation isn't about forgetting. It's about refusing to remain defined by what diminished you.

You are not what was left behind.

YOU are what kept rising.