She Did It ⚓️

✨Understanding✨

She did it

because she came from brokenness.

Not the kind you wear like a wound—

the kind passed down in silence,

generation to generation,

like heirlooms too heavy to hold.

She did it because she was angry.

Because pain had no name

but it burned through her like wildfire.

She did it because she was hurting.

Because healing felt too far,

too soft,

too foreign.

She did it because she believed she deserved less.

Because somewhere along the line,

the mirror lied.

So she self-sabotaged,

became her own storm.

She waged war on her own worth.

She did it because chaos felt like home.

Because peace felt unfamiliar

and love had conditions.

She did it because she needed someone—

anyone— to tell her she mattered.

She did it and it almost killed her.

And when it nearly did,

she found herself

on her knees at the altar of her own undoing.

And it was there,

with hands trembling and heart bare,

she met the little girl she used to be—

the one who always felt out of place,

the one who held her breath

waiting for the crash…

knowing the sirens would be too late.

She forgave her.

She held her.

Spoke life into her.

She began again… 

Just differently.

And now… she is just finding her way.

Step by sacred step.

No longer running.

No longer hiding.

Just remembering

what it means to be whole.

Evergreen Winds 🌲

✨A Poem✨

She will always love him—

not the man he became,

but the boy from the backroads,

with red dust on his boots

and wonder in his eyes.

She met him when his heart was split in two.

Before time folded their names

into different journeys,

different landscapes.

She, a woman of the bayou—

barefoot and gifted,

born to read the wind

and speak to the water.

She danced with ghosts

beneath weeping moss,

waiting on stars to align

or maybe just on herself.

He, a son of the Southern red earth,

relocated to the hush of evergreen winds.

He found a new life there,

a new love too—

the kind she used to dream about

while steeping herbs

and whispering to owls in the dark.

And still, she smiled.

Truly smiled.

Because love, real love,

doesn’t curse the wind

for blowing someone home—

even if it isn’t yours.

She wants him happy.

Wants him full.

Wants him to hold someone’s hand

when storms roll in over those evergreen ridges.

Even if … it isn’t her hand.

Even if … it never was meant to be.

But sometimes—

when the wind shifts in the evergreens,

when silence breaks just right—

she wonders if he feels it too:

the pull of something unfinished,

not broken, 

just unraveled … frayed at the end.

If ever the trees call him - 

not just back to the mountains,

but back to his old self …

If his heart ever wonders again,

he should know, she will be glad.

Glad that he found peace.

Glad that he can finally love

the woman beside him

without the ache of a divided heart.

And somewhere, deep in the bayou,

a quiet flame still burns—

not for him,

but for the holiness of healing.

For love, in all its rightful places.

Some women are meant

to be the prayer

that sends a man forward.

And some prayers

find their way home

on the wind.