Becoming Me

 I didn’t become myself through light,

Or gentle change, or things done right.

I came apart; I split; I bled,

I learned the cost of what I fed.

I fed the ache; I fed the lie,

I fed the need to feel not I.

I fed the voice that said, “Endure,”

As if slow death could be a cure.

Becoming came with broken vows,

With children learning through snapping boughs.

They’d read my silence; read my fear,

Before they learned the calendar year.

I buried girls who begged to be,

Chosen, saved, or carried free.

I raised a woman hard and plain,

Who chose herself and bore the pain.

My body learned what numbness stole,

My mouth learned love; my spine, its role.

To stand without a crutch or myth,

To face the days; mine to sit with.

No one applauds becoming whole,

There’s no arrival siren, or kicked goal.

Just choosing right when wrong feels near,

When old lives whisper, “Miss me, dear.”

I am not soft because I lived through hell,

I’m sharp because I chose to dwell;

Here—awake—with shaking hands,

Becoming more than I had planned.

©️ Wonderland Wanderess 2026