The Unbecoming

I didn't wake up beautiful—I woke up finished with being less than I am. A poem of self.

I didn’t wake up beautiful—
I woke up done.


Done shrinking my voice
to fit inside someone else’s comfort,
done calling survival “love,”
done mistaking crumbs for a feast.


My glow-up didn’t start in the mirror—
it started in the moment
I stopped asking,
“Why wasn’t I enough?”
and started saying,
“Why did I ever think I had to be?”


I shed versions of me
that begged to be chosen,
buried the girl
who called chaos chemistry,
and stitched my worth back together
with boundaries instead of apologies.


Now I walk different—
not louder,
not colder,
just certain.


Because the truth is,
this light you see?
It didn’t come easy.


It came from every dark place
that tried to keep me.


And failed.