Strength is recognized in the moments that our muscles are forced to exert themselves.
When no one is around to help you move that boulder, you must find it within yourself, or you remain stagnant.
In those moments dread coils in your stomach and your eyes wander to your surroundings
You peer down at your frail arms, wondering what strength could possibly lie beneath your skin.
If luck does not evade you, then those moments are few and seemingly life-changing.
It seems, though, that those moments are never-ending for me.
I haven’t had a moment to be weak; I survived not by chance, but by will.
From a young age, trauma has held my hand, grinding my bones beneath its grip and forcing me to writhe in pain.
The little memory that has not hidden itself in the crevasses of my mind plays beneath my eyes, reminding me all that I have survived.
The only word that comes to mind in the presence of such memories is gratitude.
Oh how much I have endured but so inspiringly survived.
Who I am today was forged by every moment of my past.
I am kind and willing to give my last to anyone who needs. Thanks to the depravity of simple nourishments throughout my childhood, how could I turn a blind eye now to those who want as desperately as I did?
I am patient and always available to listen, no matter how seemingly trivial it may seem. Thanks to no one listening while I screamed, how could I now plug my ears as I watch someone strain their throat, begging for anyone to pay attention, just as I did?
I am not defined by what I have endured, but it is the derivative of my strength. I am thankful for all that broke me; I do not look upon my past with disgust but instead with wonder. I am strength, I am resilience. I am grateful for having endured hell and remaining gentle despite it.