Believing in yourself is the first
Step to building strength that doesn’t rest.

Then, listening to others, not needing
To participate, unjudgemental, hearing
What others need, interject, harboring
Your doubts and advice so as not harming.

Speak my mind, state my faith,
Being proud of my achievements whose breadth
May seem unimportant to others, but their breath
Is my motivation to stretch abilities in depth.

Faith and belief are the core
Of my power to never bore,
As I know their roots moor
My might within a mind who’s dire.

My scars, those that society frowns
Upon, are my badges of honor, survivals,
Will, and mind over matters
That seem trivial in light of my powers.

©️ Malak K C ©️

i am brave
every time i climb to the top of a tree
not because the branches could give out under me
but because i am finding the way that i grieve
in a place i feel safe enough to pursue peace

i am strong
every time i put my skates on
not because i could fall if my balance is off
it’s ’cause i could have stayed broken-hearted
but instead i’ve found silly little shoes to make art with

i am gorgeous
not because my hair’s shiny or my makeup looks good,
but because i’ve decided that i am my audience
no more looking for pointers on my face’s performance
i do what i love and i let what i choose restore us

i am precious
while the people i meet are inspired by my energy
it also matters that i know i deserve to be
without anyone else profitting of my self
no one getting that chance but me

i am loved
though the family i chose is a gift that i hold
in my heart, it’s the version of me who was thirteen years old
whose soul i behold
as i yell out the stories, the mantras, the truths that i wish was told
and i make her feel loved, hold her hand, whisper “honey, be bold”

Growing up in the 90s and early 2000s, one of my favorite shows that I’d watch with my parents was Xena: the Warrior Princess. I remember staring in awe as Xena single-handedly defeated her sworn enemies. She represented everything I wanted to be.

Attempting to find a show to entertain myself with, I came across my beloved childhood show. I excitedly pressed play. However, not even five minutes into the first episode, I thought “man, this show kind of sucks.” My childhood show had unexpectedly lost its former glory, replaced with sharp criticism and sudden unmet expectations.

This change of perspective bothered me. Why was I now seeing this show with very different eyes?

The swords Xena wielded felt as though they had pierced right through me. I couldn’t shake the feeling of discontentment. I dug a bit deeper, and arrived at a very honest realization that perhaps it wasn’t the show I was unsatisfied with; I was unsatisfied with myself.

I hadn’t become this strong, independent woman, worthy of admiration. I was nothing like Xena. I stumble over my words when I speak up for myself, I’m scared of driving and turbulence on flights, and there’s been more times than I’d like to admit where I’ve stayed silent in the face of disrespect and humiliation. On top of it all, I barely know any proper self-defense, much less how to wield a weapon.

It wasn’t until a recent therapy session where I told my therapist that ‘war coursed through my veins’ – something I had begun to say recently – that I would soon form a new perspective. My father escaped the Salvadoran civil war in 1989, for a chance at survival and a better life in the US. The war devastated him, our family, country, and the Salvadoran diaspora that followed. Yet, deep down, I was unironically proud of this fact; I was certain that if my dad could survive a war, so could I. Strength meant knowing how to survive war.

As this story unraveled during therapy, I continued to talk about my dad, then mom and older sister.

My dad was recently diagnosed with stage 3 cancer. As a family, we’ve had to come together to not only support him, but also each other. I shared that I had my first heart-to-heart with my mom at the age of 27, and she at 61. We cried atop her kitchen counter over a shared bottle of wine, as she opened up about her childhood, and I opened up about mine. For the first time, the compassion I felt towards my mom turned into empathy. Life felt fleeting and full at that moment; we both silently acknowledged that our time together was finite. What my mom had lived through and what I had endured wasn’t easy. Yet, sharing our burdens slowly filled our cups with strength.

My older sister flew in the week prior to my dad starting chemotherapy. Her and her husband had previously gone through this process with their daughter, my niece. My older sister and I share the same mom, but different dads; she is fourteen years my senior, and we grew up in different countries. Yet, there she was sitting across from me, in the numbing waiting room at the hospital on a gloomy Monday morning. We patiently waited as my dad underwent a procedure where he had a port inserted inside his chest; we discussed that they would eventually use that same port to intravenously inject chemotherapy drugs into his system. The all-too-familiar lump formed inside my throat, but this time, it was different; it was full of grief. I began to cry, perhaps because the port had become a physical representation of my dad’s cancer, or because the dam that I believed to be neatly packing away my emotions violently burst after holding everything in. I had refused to cry in front of my parents in an effort to ‘be strong’, and had held my tears back since the diagnosis. In my despair, my older sister shared the story of an incident that occurred during my niece’s treatment, one that she hadn’t shared with me previously. She told me that during one of her chemo sessions, they realized that the treatment hadn’t gone as planned, and that they’d have to come back for another painful round the following day. After learning this, my sister broke down. She shared that my niece had never seen her cry in the 2+ years that she had battled cancer. Upon seeing my sister cry, my niece desperately bawled between breaths, “I’m going to die!”. At that moment, my sister quickly responded with “I’m not crying because you’re going to die; I’m crying because you’re going to have to come back again tomorrow.” My sister said that my niece then cried out, “oh no! I’m going to have to come back tomorrow!”, and for a fleeting moment, the short-lived laughter washed away the tears in the room. Sometimes, strength doesn’t come from holding back tears, but instead embracing each other in them.

As I shared this with my therapist, after a pause she said, “You come from a strong line of women.” An audible silence followed; no one had ever stated this to me before. I took the time to let this statement soak in, and acknowledged that I do come from a strong lineage of women, and that strength lies within me.

I’ve now come to make peace with the fact that my strength may not look the same as Xena’s – and that’s okay. Strength has shown itself to me in so many different ways; surviving war, embracing vulnerability, and learning it’s okay to cry. Right now, strength remains in staying hopeful throughout my dad’s cancer treatment.

I’ve learned that my strength doesn’t just come from me; it’s been passed down, through the line of people that come before me. They are my strength, and I am theirs. This is what makes me strong.

At one point in my life, everything went dark.
“You can do this. One day at a time. One minute at a time. One second at a time…”

How I got to this point didn’t matter —

It just became another battle to fight,
another attempt to breathe,
and another day to try and live.

I like to give my friends credit and say they were the ones that made me so strong.
They were the ones that kept me around.
They were the ones who helped me function every day.

But perhaps that wasn’t the case —
Could it have been me all along?

What made me strong was the serenity to accept the things I could not change,
Courage to change the things I could,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

Once I started balancing emotions with logic,
accountability over blame,
and self-love over hatred —

That is when I became strong.
Those are the principles that gave me light through the darkness.
And that is what kept me going even went the lights went out.

Many moons ago, I used to have this pesky little habit of twirling my hair. I would twirl my hair when I was happy, I would twirl my hair when I was sad, twirl my hair belly laughing, even twirled my hair watching whatever Halloween movie in utter suspense.
Twirling my hair was my jam.
As the moons turned to crescents and faint owl shapes, I stopped twirling my hair.
Anxiety packed its bags and came to my house for what was supposed to be an overnight night stay here or there.
But they stayed and oh boy are we having a great time!
During the stay, I picked up an even “pet peevier” habit of pulling my hair. Out.
The more intense life got with Me, the more I would tug. One strand, curl, beaded braid, or finger wave at a time, I would tug.
After a rough couple of years, lots of crooked wigs, the whole epic glue debacle, and a lot of honorable “Mommy your hair is so funny” mentions from my son, I decided in June of 2018 a change would need to be made.
Internally more than anything.
I decided that I no longer would hide behind my hair, using it as an escape route and filtering my feelings.
I decided I wanted to allow my roots to grow beautifully and naturally in whatever form they choose.
I decided this time around I would show myself some strength, security, and sacrifice.
I woke up on 06/10/2018 with the bit of hair I managed to salvage, sticking straight up like a warhead, and said, “I’m locking my hair, I’m done!”
My appointment was set, and I was ready to go.
Or so I thought.
That day it seemed that everything that could go wrong before a 10:00 am appointment could, did.
My son was running a slight fever due to teething, and he was cranky and wanted to snuggle with mom all day, my car was running hot just out of the magic jiffy lube blue, my funds were running low because my direct deposit still hadn’t processed yet and I was running out of patience.
I called my hair stylist twice. I was going to cancel. I for sure thought I needed to cancel.
The first time I hung up after the third ring.
The second time I called and stayed on the line giving myself the “Breathe, you got this champ” pep talk until the line was answered.
I crumbled into a wimpy pile of tears and explained all that is keeping Me from the change I so desperately needed.
I started to pull; it was familiar it provided a sense of comfort.
I…I needed the comfort.
I stopped myself quickly, when I heard my stylist say, “it’s fine girl, come on over and we’ll figure something out later.”
I choose to turn the day around and lean into the unknown which is something I loathe doing.
Breathed a sigh of relief, dropped my kiddo off with his father, got some quick fluids maintenance on car and by the time my hair was loc-d and done the funds were in my account and I was able to make good on appointment measures.
That was almost 5 years ago.
5 years of trials, displacement both literally and mentally.
5 years of strength, self-scrutiny and self-love and the balance of pulling everything out that means Me no good.
My hair represents the joys of my ongoing strength.
No matter what trends, styles, pressures of social society and stigmas were placed on Me throughout these 5 years I have shown strength.
Each loc represents a time where I could have let my mind ravage over Me wildly and corrupt my good nature.
Each loc represents where I held on and where I prevailed.
Some locs have lint in them from the times I were displaced and needed to make a cot bedding out of blankets in my car.
Some locs are colored representation a time when I wanted to feel a positive change.
Some locs are shorter than the others to remind Me of the damage done when I pull negatively from the roots.
Some locs are intertwined with others to remind Me it’s okay to join someone to make an impact overall.
Some locs are thinner, dryer then the others due to the medications.
Some locs grow wild to represent my instinctive nature.
All the locs are Me.
5 years of a magical, amazing journey I find the most strength in. No more pulling. Only nourishing and excitement during semiannual length checks.
Each day, whether I wear my hair in a high 80’s style pony or a swift low space bun I am so incredibly thankful for each loc-d testimony of strength.

To Whom It May Concern,

Anxiety forced strength into my veins
Shooting in like a drug until I became
Addicted
Young army brat, only child
Made to say goodbye to friends
Who filled my latchkey lonely existence
High school lunches in the library
Not a winner at popularity
Accused at home of acting like a
Queen
Crying inside, always wanting to
Scream
(but I can’t seem to catch my breath)
College dropout, waitress, single wide, marriage, one kid, two kids, divorce, living with parents
Epilepsy
Teachers and classmates who do not…will not try to understand
Advocate for my child
Student, graduate, renter, work
Still looking for my self esteem
It’s not lost though
I never knew where it was
In the beginning
Bad relationships because I sure as hell don’t deserve better
Bought a home
Two. Doors. Down. From. My. Parents.
Surgery…the doctor said it was my hormones…it would resolve itself
Nothing in my life resolves itself
Surgery, surgery, surgery, surgery, surgery, surgery, surgery, surgery…I lost count and want to forget
Ran into my husband’s groomsman
At the store, in my sweat pants, unwashed hair, aging face, extra pounds
Must be love
Blended family, blended home, blended personalities
Four Teenagers, no one with Epilepsy anymore…puberty can be a blessing
Tears, misunderstandings…puberty can hurt
Always love…love can hurt
If you allow it
I always do
Moved 1325 miles to a home rented over the internet
Unpack, explore, smile in sunshine
Angry parents still in the cold
I feel it from here
Home foreclosed
Made to move again
After four months
Then again
And again
Another time too
But that’s not the last
Finally, a home
With our name on it
Knee replacement, prescribed myself whiskey for pain
Still a good decision
Soul piercing anger from a family member, changing me, charging me from the inside out
I am spent
Parents still angry, unafraid to tell me how much
If I don’t contact them, they can’t cause as much pain
Blood relatives mistake my silence for guilt and judge without
Even. Asking. Me. Not. One. Word.
I have one cousin now in a sea of DNA
I can’t swim
One day, the anger, anguish, frustration…whatever it was…overflowed in the brain of my parent, spilling enough that a truck was parked in my old high school parking lot and a gun was drawn and fired and breathing stopped and the other one blamed me on my social media and my head hasn’t quite stopped spinning since that day…and…I wish I could make it
Slow down so I can catch up
Love came in the form of elderly dogs who need hugs and kisses
So we give it to them, over and over and over until our home is full of
Fluffy little ones with cataracts, blindness, deafness, worn joints, disintegrating spines, bladder issues
One of the best decisions we’ve made
Hurricane Ian was a direct hit
Our home has a hole in the side, ceilings are missing, we watched them fall in
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
It concerns me
I could be weak, sometimes I am
But I am also strong
So strong
I am immeasurable
Because I find a way
(the hidden path)
Love,

Dear Gerald,

For a long time, you felt that out of all the attributes you had, being strong wasn’t a part of that list.
You saw other people as being strong like actors who played strong characters in movies, musical artists who looked like they had overwhelming strength in their image, or just family members and kids you knew who seemed like they had a lot of power & strength inside their bodies.

Meanwhile, you had a hard time believing that you were or could be strong. The self-doubt, insecurities, low self-esteem, and overthinking clouded you from seeing how strong you were all along.

It can be challenging to see your strength when you’re surrounded by people who undermine or don’t appreciate it. Thankfully, you can see more clearly that you’re a strong person.

What makes you strong is your willingness to have empathy for others when you could have given up on that a long time ago. Your inner drive to empower others as best as you can also make you strong.

The fact that the inner pain that you have been wrestling with for years didn’t drive you to the grave makes you strong. The will to keep fighting for a better life every day makes you strong.

Your increasing drive to try new things makes you strong and writing this letter makes you strong also.
You don’t feel strong all the time. But acknowledging that takes tremendous strength to do. Plus it gives you the peace that everyone needs in their life.

Everyone is strong in their unique way. It’s great to be reminded of that fact every now and then.

Sincerely,

Strength it seems cannot be seen.
It floats, it sinks, it rises Supreme.

Appearances will seldom show, the strength and power of a true, pure Soul.

What makes me strong is not my size, is not the muscles in my arms or thighs.

There is one muscle which I have strong, it is my heart, which sings its Sekhem song.

Humming softly to my head, to keep the faith and Rise instead.

Sinking we will only do, to dive the deep; and Ascend higher, whole and true. ~ © 2023, Danielle, #DAMCL ™, @DsEnlightenedEdits ® 𓌂𓋹

Yearning for the Best

Growing up I had low confidence in myself
But after my teen years my mother kept reminding me that I have conquered so much
While some people find their power and love in money, I learned that I wasn’t satisfied with wealth
Compared to giving love to others, and living without a constant rush

Why does this make me strong?
It makes me strong because I have learned how great my worth is over time
After being pushed over, rejected, and led along
I have learned to forego the pain, leaving it behind

My mother had six children
Which makes me one of many
I can’t imagine life without them
They make my life so full and plenty

I truthfully gain so much strength from my siblings
We are all so very different
We aim to uplift each other even when we are chatting about nothing
What matters at the end of the day is that we love each other and ensure we are content

As I have one older brother, three young brothers, and one sister
These precious people give me strength I never could have imagined
We never leave each other bitter
But only better with full hearts and full grins

Overall, what makes me strong?
My momma and my siblings do
The older I get, the better we all get along
I’ve gained so much in life by focusing on my family; I believe that you should too

(Image is to depict a beautiful journey to my strength and my resilience)

I knew I was strong when I could drown the sound of violence with books and imagery, academics and poetry; reach beyond the ceiling that echoed misery and graduate Summa Cum Laude.

Strength was me seeing two lines and dissociating immediately to give a life that never even got to lock eyes with me the chance to escape the futile ride that surely waited on the other side.

My real test of strength came when I told myself ‘I was afraid, but this time I’ll do it scared’ and allowed a genius to grow inside of me and teach me, simply, how to hug. Between the push and pull of ownership versus individuality, I’ve been strong enough to let him just BE.

On those days violence got personal and public, a war waged against just me: I had to hide every scar that scraped my skin and pierced my soul to stand in the face of authority who had the power to destroy me because the lies, status and money were felt deeper than my hidden cries. I don’t think I’ll ever let that one go. Because I still have to stare into the face of the one who vengefully and vehemently toiled and plotted to see me disintegrate, willfully hoping to separate a bond he knew he could never break anyway.

Yeah, I’ll never let that go.

But I’m still strong.

I’m strong because my body is filled with thunder and lightening and the remedies I take each day will never change the season, only get me to my last one. So some days I just lie in bed and watch the clock and focus on my breaths; then others, I live like it’s the last time I’ll ever take one.

Yeah, I think that’s strong because that’s my balance and it works for me. Through insomnia and sleep paralysis, some nightmares and some true; I sit and wish the sky wasn’t blue, but black because that’s the color of the skin that towered over me whenever I needed relief, or slack, or just someone to have my back.

That was my greatest protector. And even he decided to give up and stop breathing in front of me while the one who birthed and nurtured me can’t even get me to answer the phone unless she’s ready to do the same.

That’s my truth and I can no longer hide behind the guilt, sin or shame.

I am strong because chaos is carried through my last name but I still sit – daily, and coddle my own heart from the pain.

Dear Universe,

Bob Marley once said, “You never know how strong you are, until being strong is your only choice.” I had seen that quote long ago, as a teen, on a poster at the mall and never knew I would feel the weight of those words later in my life. That truly did seem like a land far, far away.

You see, I survived over twenty-three years of domestic abuse. During active abuse, I thought I was weak. Once I got away from my abuser for good, I then thought of myself as powerless and foolish. I wasn’t any of those, I discovered. I was loving. I was resourceful. I was my children’s umbrella and protector. I had previously allowed another human being, who claimed to love me so much, to use me as a punching bag and doormat — so he wouldn’t harm our children. Then, I started to feel worthless and humiliated.

I really did try everything in my power to make my abuser happy, but I know now that nothing would have ever done that. That made me miserable until I realized that it was NOT my job to make him happy…so instead? Well, I made me happy — because I am the only one I can truly control. While I still struggle, I am happy. After all, I resigned myself to be…and well, because I am A LOT safer than I have ever been.

I did everything that a wife and mother were supposed to do: love and support her family members, and provide for her family by whatever means she had. I gave my ALL…literally so much so that getting away nearly killed me. People tell me that I am brave. No, not brave…I think a better word would be “stubborn.” Can stubbornness be a strength? For me, it was because it kept me and my family alive!

What I’ve discovered, after five years outside of abuse, is what strength truly is. Strength isn’t necessarily bravery. Strength is consistency. Strength is doing what you know you should do, even though it is not easy or desirable, because it is right. Strength is carrying on, even though you are so tired and you feel like giving up, but you try just “one more time,” resulting in a “win” (no matter how small). Strength is breaking things down into little, manageable pieces and taking those on, one at a time, until you’ve achieved! Strength is setting boundaries because you know all too well the consequences if you don’t.

Strength, too, is finding yourself again, after you lost yourself. I re-discovered myself, post abuse, slowly but surely. It can be in the form of self-love, which is like a self-perpetuating engine. And these things, skills, and activities, that I used to love, came back to me as my strengths (because I had missed them so greatly). My abuser wouldn’t allow me to write. I could write nothing because even writing in my personal journal was an abomination! I was stripped of privacy and individuality. Hell, I was stripped of everything to the point that I was mimicking a human being. I was a fembot and life was bleak. Now, life has color again and it’s beautiful! Strong, vibrant color!

I have drawn my strength from finding my true purpose: helping victims and survivors of domestic abuse get out and permanently stay out of abuse. God delivered me from a demon, so I must give that knowledge back to others who are still in the dark. I will lend my light to another, so that they may become enlightened. The light they give off helps to heal me and then help more. In the Bible, Proverbs 27:17, states this exactly: “as iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.”

I am strong. If I cannot find a way, like General Hannibal, I will make one!

Much love and light,