I remember how you wore that jacket
like a shield—
not for the cold,
but to disappear,
to quiet the noise,
to hide the pain no one asked about.

You were surviving
in a world that wanted you silent,
still,
small.
They told you
what you couldn’t do,
couldn’t be—
as if your worth could be measured
by their narrow lines.

But you kept going.
You stumbled,
you screamed into pillows,
you questioned everything—
and still,
you built something out of the pieces
they tried to break.

I see you now—
no longer shrinking.
You wear what you want.
You say what they never let you say.
You’ve become someone
the old you couldn’t yet imagine.

If I could speak to you,
I wouldn’t offer hope like a promise.
I’d say this:

You’re not broken.
You’re not wrong.
You are real.
And you made it—not because of them.
In spite of them.