I have walked through rooms 

where silence spoke louder than love, 

and I have lost things 

I thought I could never let go of. 

But here I stand, 

hands no longer clinging, 

heart no longer breaking. 

 

What was taken 

left space for something else— 

a soft breath, 

a sunrise, 

the warmth of someone’s voice 

on a quiet day. 

 

I could mourn what slipped away, 

but then, 

I might miss 

the gentle joy 

of what stayed. 

 

This moment, 

this fleeting, imperfect now, 

is mine to hold. 

It hums with the life 

I once prayed for 

and didn’t see 

until I stopped looking back. 

 

So I choose gratitude, 

not because I have everything, 

but because what I have 

is enough. 

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