✨grateful for the journey✨
She once thought the ache in her chest was her destiny…
that the bruises she carried were the language of love…
that silence was safety…
and survival was enough.
For so long…
she was the girl who wanted to be chosen.
A child in a woman’s body…
standing in doorways that never opened.
Trusting men to make her whole.
Believing love meant proving herself worthy of staying.
She poured herself into their emptiness…
fed them pieces of her spirit like bread to the hungry…
and called it devotion.
But it was starvation dressed in hope.
She didn’t know then…
that she was the offering.
That she was the prayer… the gift…
the holy thing.
That her softness was sacred…
her silence… a hymn.
Her very presence… a kind of miracle.
Until he showed up.
Smooth-tongued, eyes like stormlight after rain.
And she mistook his pull for peace.
Not knowing yet… his hands carried ghosts.
Her mother’s rage.
Her father’s leaving.
Every whisper that told her she was too much…
and never enough.
He broke her spirit wide open.
Split her soul like cypress struck by lightning.
But in that splintering…
she saw herself.
Not the wounded child raised from fear…
but the wild-hearted woman
the bayou had been humming about all along.
When he left… the night was still.
Even the frogs held their breath.
And she stood there, barefoot in the mud,
watching the moon lay silver across her scars.
Realizing… every wound was a map.
Every tear… a trail.
And it all led home.
To her own soul.
Now… she leaves braids in her hair for protection.
Each twist a spell of remembrance.
Each strand a promise to the wind,
she will never again forget her worth.
She walks barefoot through the bayou at dawn.
Mist kissing her ankles like forgiveness.
Her heart steady now… fierce and calm.
She knows…
the river doesn’t chase what’s already meant to flow with it.
And when her children look to her…
they see a mother who rose from ruin
and turned it into rhythm.
Who learned that being chosen was never the prize,
being whole was.
She teaches them without words.
That they are never too much.
Never not enough.
That love is not earned through suffering.
That their spirits are their birthright.
She thanks the man who mirrored her pain…
for every wound that became her teacher.
For showing her the reflection she had refused to see.
For being the storm that set her free.
Now, when the moon climbs high
and the frogs begin to sing,
she smiles into the night…
because the story was never about him breaking her.
It was always about her remembering
who she’s always been.
The wild daughter of the water…
the woman the bayou itself rose up to protect.