I grew my calm from concrete—
yeah, I bloomed where nobody watered me.
Where the air was thick with “you ain’t enough,”
and my roots had to learn to break through tough.
I learned peace in places peace don’t grow,
in houses where love had conditions and control,
where the walls remembered every raised voice,
and silence was never a choice—just noise.
But look—
I stopped apologizing for outgrowing the room
they tried to bury me in like a seed they assumed
would rot.
But baby, I don’t rot.
I rise. I rewrite. I re-root. I redefine.
That’s the thing about scars—
they’re proof I did not stay where it hurt.
They’re proof I didn’t fold when the weight
gave me every reason to hit the dirt.
My calm is not dainty.
It is not soft-spoken.
It’s a calm that’s been
cut open, stitched up, broken,
then re-built with unshakable devotion.
This peace?
I earned it.
I bled for it.
I had to unlearn love that burned
and plant love that returns.
So if you feel like your world is all pavement—no green,
no gentle, no bloom, no dream—
remember:
flowers don’t wait for perfect soil,
they rise from asphalt like rebellion.
And you—
you are a rebellion.
A quiet one.
A thunderstorm in slow motion.
A “not one more time” whispered into the mirror
until the whisper turned into a war cry.
I grew my calm from concrete.
I turned trauma into truth.
I turned survival into sacred.
I turned myself into home.
And so can you.
Self-love isn’t soft.
It’s holy.
It’s gritty.
It’s choosing yourself like a promise
you refuse to break
ever again.
