I think about the women
who built bridges out of silence.
Who made homes out of places
that never wanted them.

The women who bit their tongues
until their mouths tasted like blood
but still found a way to sing.

The women who learned how to
carry heartbreak in their bones
and dance.
Who loved too hard
and apologized for it.

I think about my grandmother,
how she prayed for a life
that didn’t hurt so much,
but still showed up every morning
to plant seeds she’d never get to harvest.

I think about my mother,
how she folded her dreams into corners
so there’d be space for everyone else,
but whispered them to me at night
so I’d never forget.

And I wonder—
how many women came before me,
their names buried in whispers,
their stories erased in the margins.

Women who walked into rooms
and weren’t acknowledged.
Who were told,
“This is not your place,”
but stood there anyway,
and said,
“Watch me make it mine.”

To the women who came before me;
thank you for the courage
to demand more.

And to the women still to come
remember,
the fire we carry
did not start with us,
it will not end with us.

So burn bright.
Burn loud.
Burn everything
that was never meant
to hold you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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