I've worn the weight of the world on my shoulders,
sustained by a lifetime of wounds,
inflicted by others,
but mostly by myself.
The ghosts of my past—
my father, my stepmother—
they etched their voices into my mind,
a relentless echo,
whispering lies that I'm not enough,
that love was something I’d never deserve.

For years, I believed them,
let their words fester,
let them shape the way I was treated,
allowed people to mold me,
bend me,
use me,
until I no longer recognized my own reflection.

But in the darkest hour,
when the worst of it came,
there was only silence,
no one around to see,
no one to save me.
I was alone with those voices,
with the chaos they created,
and yet,
amidst the noise,
I heard something else.

The voice of my inner child,
the one I had forgotten,
the one I had let be hurt,
the one I had neglected.
And the voice of the version of me
that let all this happen,
the version that didn’t know better,
that couldn’t walk away.

It was chaos—
a storm of regret,
of pain,
of realization.
But in that storm,
I found clarity.

The universe,
in its quiet,
taught me what I needed to learn.
It wasn’t the world,
it wasn’t the people,
it wasn’t the ghosts—
it was me.
I allowed it all,
accepted love in forms it never should have taken,
wrapped myself in the lie that abuse could be love.

But when I stopped blaming,
when I took responsibility,
I also found forgiveness.
For myself.
For the person I was,
for the choices I made.
I did the best I could,
with what I knew,
with the strength I had.

And now,
for the first time,
there is harmony within me.
The voices have quieted,
the chaos has stilled.
My inner child,
no longer a victim,
rests safely within me,
protected by the survivor I’ve become.

I have no time left for victimhood,
no space for self-destruction.
I am a survivor,
and I am free.