Thirty-six was the year
I came back to life.

No longer naïve.
No longer reckless.

I am a woman
who survived fire,
carried ash in her hands,
and still found a way
to glow.

This was the happiest year in a decade—
not because it was painless,
but because I was awake
for all of it.

I wrote.
I unraveled.
I loved.

I opened myself
in ways I thought I never could again.
And in that opening
I found her—
the version of me
buried beneath silence,
survival,
and someone else’s shadow.

I don’t need armor anymore.
Every scar, every mark,
every lingering spell—
they are mine,
and I am more myself with them
than I ever was without.

Nothing is perfect.
But I have never been more present.

Softer
where I once grew hard.
Stronger
where I once gave way.

I’ve found joy that feels rooted.
Love that feels weightless.

I am alive.
I am capable.

Thirty-six
was resurrection.