In the Land That Calls Me Stranger

I walk softly here— not because I want to, but because the air hums with eyes that follow. The ground beneath me feels borrowed, as if one wrong step might make it vanish.

My tongue is careful now. I roll my r’s in silence, tuck my vowels behind my teeth. Even my laughter feels foreign— too loud, too brown, too much of home for a place that wants me quiet.

I carry my papers like a shield, my heartbeat quickening at sirens that aren’t for me but could be. Every headline feels like a warning, every promise like a trap.

Sometimes I dream in two languages, and wake up wondering which one I am allowed to speak. I scroll through news that turns my people into shadows, our stories into statistics, our names into questions.

There’s a weight to being watched— to always wondering when the shoe will drop, when the next word, the next law, the next face in power will remind me that I do not belong.

And yet— in the quiet of my kitchen, the smell of cumin and corn wraps around me like a prayer. I hum an old song my mother used to sing, and for a moment, I am safe.

In that small space, I remember: they cannot take the warmth from my hands, the stories from my blood, the language that built me.

I am still here— standing on soil that may not claim me, but still holds me. I am the daughter of survivors, the echo of a thousand women who refused to disappear.

Even when the world turns away, I remain— unseen, but unbroken, afraid, but alive, a heartbeat that refuses to be silenced.

The Space Between Who I Was and Who I’m Becoming

There was a time when I lived by the ticking of progress—each task a measure, each success a breath of validation. I mistook motion for meaning, achievement for worth.

I built myself from outcomes, layer upon layer of doing, until the silence beneath it all became unbearable.

Now, the noise is gone. And what’s left is a strange kind of stillness—not peace, not yet, but a numb hum in the chest, a hollow where certainty used to live.

I grieve the version of me who knew exactly what to chase. I grieve the comfort of direction, the illusion of control. And in the quiet, I hear the echo of my own doubt—the voice that asks if I am anything without the gold stars and finished lines.

But somewhere in the rubble, a softer truth stirs. Maybe I was never meant to be built from milestones. Maybe I am meant to be found in the pauses—in the breath before the next step, in the trust that the path will unfold even when I cannot see it.

So I gather the pieces, not to rebuild what was, but to create something freer—a self unmeasured, a life unplanned.

I will learn to stand in the uncertainty, to let the unknown become a kind of faith.

Because life has never followed the blueprints I drew, and maybe that’s the point—to stop defining myself by what I’ve done, and start becoming who I already am.

The Echo Left Behind

In the quiet shadows where memories dwell, 

Lies the echo of a story too tender to tell. 

A heart once full, now hollow and bare, 

Yearns for the touch that is no longer there. 

The sun sets softly, yet the night is long, 

Each star a reminder of where you belong. 

In dreams, you visit, a whisper, a sigh, 

But morning steals you, and leaves me to cry. 

What ifs linger like ghosts in the night, 

Questions unanswered, out of sight. 

Does it get better? They say it might, 

Yet the wound remains, despite the light. 

Time, the healer, moves at its pace, 

But the heartache lingers, a familiar face. 

In laughter, in silence, in moments of grace, 

Your absence is present, a haunting embrace. 

What do I do with this pain I bear? 

I carry it gently, with love and care. 

For in this sorrow, a bond remains, 

A testament to love that forever sustains. 

So I walk this path with memories in tow, 

Learning to live, learning to grow. 

In the tapestry of life, your thread is spun, 

A part of my heart, forever as one.

Kintsugi of the Soul

In the quiet of a potter’s room,

Where broken shards lie in gloom,

A master works with hands so wise,

To mend what once met its demise.

Kintsugi, the art of golden seams,

Where broken pieces find new dreams,

Lacquer mixed with powdered gold,

Mends the cracks, makes stories told.

A vessel once shattered, now made whole,

The fractures filled with lines of gold.

The scars are not hidden, but shown with pride,

A testament to what has been survived.

So too the soul that’s been through pain,

Bears the marks of loss and strain.

Trauma breaks us, makes us fall,

Yet within us lies the strength to recall.

The cracks and breaks are part of us,

A history written in lines of trust.

To heal is not to make it disappear,

But to fill the gaps with what makes us dear.

Golden lines where once were wounds,

A symbol of the strength that looms.

The beauty lies not in what was whole,

But in the mending of a broken soul.

We are all like kintsugi, in a way,

With golden scars that never fade away.

The broken parts are part of our story,

A testament to our journey and glory.

Healing is a journey, a work of art,

Where broken hearts can make a new start.

With every crack is filled with love and light,

We become more beautiful in the night.

So let us embrace our golden seams,

The mended parts where once were dreams.

For in the art of kintsugi, we find,

The beauty of a soul that’s been refined.