Do you have a story to tell?

Where I Begin Again

I imagined a small,
fragile egg
lodged behind my collarbone—
something that might crack
if I spoke too loudly
or breathed too deeply.

That’s how
I learned to carry myself:
quiet,
contained,
afraid to disturb
this thing
that might spill
if touched.

I finally noticed
how long
I’d been holding
my breath,
and it startled me.

Some days,
exhaling
felt like an apology.

Inhale control,
exhale compliance.

It took years
to realize
I’d been treating oxygen
like a privilege
I had to earn.

Pain
became a dialect
my body
spoke fluently—
a way to translate
feelings too complex
for words
into something
visible,
tangible.

I once thought
it meant weakness.
Really,
it was a desperate
attempt
to be understood.

Memory fractures here:
half of me present,
half of me watching.

Time bends
when the mind retreats
and the body stays.

All I remember is
stillness,
the hum of a lamp,
a clock refusing to move—

a shiver
down my spine,
the egg
finally
cracked.

I began
by touching the edges
of my own existence:
fingertips,
pulse,
the rhythm
of my breath.

Writing
became a practice
of returning—
each word
a small step
back toward my body.

Safety came slowly,
not as a flood
but a drip.

The body remembers
what the mind forgets—
but it also forgives.

Mine
learned to breathe again,
to soften
around what it once
held so tightly.

Now,
when I press my hand
to my heart,
I don’t feel for silence.
I feel for proof:

I am alive.
I have survived.
I am going to be alright.

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