I used to drag my past behind me
like a dented metal suitcase with the wheels missing—
loud, heavy,
announcing itself everywhere I went.
You could hear me coming
before I ever showed up.
I used to think my history was proof
that I was made from cracks
instead of gold.
That every mistake had my name on it
in bold, neon marker.
That I was destined to be the same damn story on repeat—
a rerun nobody asked for.
But no.
Not anymore.
See—
I’ve learned something on this healing journey:
you can love who you were
without staying there.
You can honor what you survived
without letting it call the shots.
Yesterday tried to tell me who I’d be.
But I woke up today
with a louder voice.
My tomorrow isn’t written in the scars.
It’s written in the skin that’s growing over them.
It’s in the breath I take
when I choose peace instead of war,
silence instead of chaos,
truth instead of pretending.
I am not required to carry what broke me.
I don’t owe my past a damn thing,
except gratitude for the clarity.
I am choosing self-love like oxygen.
I am choosing emotional growth like sunrise.
I am choosing to stay soft,
even after being cut.
That’s the real rebellion.
So if you’re reading this,
clutching the memories that bruise you—
let them go before they stain the future
you haven’t even lived yet.
Your tomorrow is yours.
Unclaimed.
Untouched.
Unwritten.
And baby—
you’re holding the pen.
