You are not behind.

You are not late.

You are arriving…

right on time,

in the hush of your own becoming.

 

In your early thirties now,

you carry the weight of what has withered,

and the grace of what has endured.

You have stopped chasing shapes

that could never hold your name.

 

You have known ache,

you have known beauty,

and somehow, you have been tempered by both.

Your victories, too soft for the world’s loud eyes,

bloom quietly within you —

untamed, unbroken.

 

Let them.

 

There were seasons that scorched,

that peeled you back to bone and breath,

seasons that asked you to lose what would not last.

You stood through it,

bare and unbeautiful,

until the hush before the rain came —

and something tender stirred again in your soil.

 

You are a woman

unfolding inward and outward at once,

softly rewording her story.

Not with clamor,

not with flame,

but with a breath that deepens the room,

with a silence that shifts the ground,

with a power braided into your very roots.

 

This is not a breaking.

This is not a retreat.

 

It is rain sinking into thirsty earth —

it is the soft, unstoppable blooming

of a revolution.