fields.FIELD_NAME

When they ask me
what it means
to begin again,
I don’t talk fast.
Some things are too sacred
for quick answers.

I say
it’s like being broken
by your own name.
Like forgetting the shape
of your soul.

You’ll walk alone
through rain that never stops,
carrying silence like a second skin.
You’ll cry in the day
and pretend it’s just the wind.

You’ll lose
the voices that raised you,
the smell of your mom’s bread,
the rhythm of your native tongue.
Even your shadow
will look like a stranger.

And yet
in the quiet
between the breaking,
something starts.

Not loud,
but like the first bud
after a long winter.

You’ll rise
not as you were,
but as something new.
Gold in your cracks.
A bowl once broken,
now more beautiful
for being made whole again.

You’ll learn
to build from ash.
To speak
with the courage
of a soft voice.
To hold love
without asking permission.

You’ll gather fragments
a kindness from a stranger,
a job with no judgment,
a hand reaching
when yours had gone numb.

These are your threads.
You’ll sew them
into a life.

You’ll fall in love
with yourself,
with your freedom,
with your quiet strength.

You’ll live again.
You’ll laugh again.
You’ll become again.

This
this is then and now.
A bridge of memory and will.
A story of absence
and presence.

And like all beautiful things,
it’s
still
being
written.