I learned that healing isn’t glamorous.
It’s not a soft-filter montage with latte foam art
and acoustic guitar humming in the background.
It’s more like waking up at 2 a.m.,
liking your ex’s old Instagram by accident,
and praying God Himself hits “undo.”
But somewhere between heartbreak
and hitting “block” for the seventh time,
I realized something sacred:
I wrap my wounds with ribbons called hope.
Not because I’m naïve—
but because giving up feels too outdated for 2025.
Hope looks different these days anyway.
It’s not the glittery Pinterest kind.
It’s the “I’m tired but I’m still showing up” kind.
The “healing in soft-launch mode” kind.
The “my therapist says I’m doing amazing
even though I cried in Target” kind.
I used to hide my bruises
like they were bad selfies.
Now I parade them down the street
like bold accessories—
because pain is proof
I’ve lived, loved, and survived
stories that would make Hollywood blink twice.
Some wounds take longer.
Some reopen like they’ve missed you.
Some sting when it rains
or when Beyoncé drops a surprise album
and your soul gets reflective.
But still—
I tie one more ribbon around the ache,
pull it tight,
and whisper,
“You’re not breaking me today.”
And isn’t that what hope really is?
Not a miracle.
A choice.
A stubborn, stylish,
walk-away-from-the-drama
choice.
So here’s to the stitched-up hearts,
the day-by-day rebuilders,
the ones who don’t pretend healing is linear
or cute
or aesthetic.
Here’s to the warriors who glow-up quietly.
Who rise anyway.
Who laugh through the cracks
and love themselves in all the wrong lighting.
I wrap my wounds with ribbons called hope—
not because I’m healed,
but because I’m healing
and that
is enough.
