Six months in jail, knew the cracks in the wall, Came into this program barely talking at all. Now I catch little changes in the way that I think, There’s a pause where I used to let the whole day sink. Some days I like my own mind—that feels strange to admit, Used to search for an escape, now I’m learning to sit. My therapist saw progress I kept calling a phase, Kept pointing out the changes I explained away. Saw me taking steps before I felt my feet move, Now I’m telling the whole truth, even things I can’t prove. There’s a version of me I’m beginning to trust, Still afraid to say I’m proud, but I think that I’m almost Starting to like who I see, But it still hurts underneath. I’m more than the worst things I’ve done, Still got a future I haven’t given up on. If I never get the life I drew, I still get to choose what I do. I can miss what might’ve been And show up for myself again. I can make a courtroom out of anything I feel, Put the ache up on the stand, ask it how it knows it’s real. Every feeling gets a thesis, every loss becomes a “why,” Like the right conclusion might explain me out of crying. Want an answer for the anger, want a reason for the grief, Want to know if understanding means it finally lets me breathe. But I’ll spend all night debating what a feeling even means, Then wake up with the same hurt underneath all my theories. So I’m saying what I used to leave outside the room, Let my therapist hear things I’d usually turn into a joke. Opening up in group, feel like an alien when I speak, Like everybody got instructions that were never given to me. Still, I share the parts of living I was certain I should hide, Use the things I’ve been through to help someone through their night. I don’t have every answer; I can tell them what I know Sometimes helping someone else shows me how much I’ve grown. Starting to like who I see, But it still hurts underneath. I’m more than the worst things I’ve done, Still got a future I haven’t given up on. If I never get the life I drew, I still get to choose what I do. I can miss what might’ve been And show up for myself again. I still miss the family that I thought I’d get to have, Catch myself furnishing a home I might not ever get back. Have to grieve the little mornings, all the ordinary days, All the things I thought were waiting on the other side of change. And the mirror gets exhausting when I turn it to a fight, Counting every wrong decision like it cancels something right. Trying to say, “I did those things,” without stopping at that line, There’s responsibility to take, there’s still a life that’s mine. Being someone I can count on means the promises get small: Get up, tell the truth, ask for help before I fall. Do the work when no one’s watching, when there’s nothing to announce, When the person I wish saw it might not ever find out. I want a future I can live in, want to mean it when I smile, Want to feel proud of myself without putting myself on trial. This year was necessary; wish the cause had been different, I’m grateful for the help, still grieving how I came to get it. What if life never looks like the picture I kept? What if growing means accepting there are things I can’t get? I still want to be here to see what I become, Have a day I can look back on and be proud of what I’ve done. And if someone feels less alone because I let them hear my story, That can matter, even while I’m learning how to live mine for me. I’m starting to like who I see, Even when it hurts underneath. I’m more than the worst things I’ve done, Still got a future I haven’t given up on. If I never get the life I drew, I still get to choose what I do. I can miss what might’ve been And show up for myself again. My therapist saw growth before I knew what to call it. Now I notice little things, and I’m learning to acknowledge it. Still got questions. Still got grief. Still got work when morning comes. But I’m starting to believe I can depend on who I’m becoming.
