not the nervous hands,
not the practiced smiles,
not even the waiting.
It was waking up every morning
trying to convince myself
that I still mattered
after another silence.
I gave years to dreams,
late nights, assignments, sacrifices,
thinking one day
life would finally open its doors for me.
But now I sit here
counting unpaid bills,
counting rejected hopes,
counting how many times
I said “I’m okay”
when I wasn’t.
Sometimes I wonder
if I chose the wrong path,
if my degree became nothing more
than paper folded with disappointment.
And it hurts
watching people younger than me
already living the life
I begged God for quietly.
Still, somehow,
I continue searching.
Even tired.
Even heartbroken.
Even doubting myself.
Because a small part of me
still believes
my story cannot end
in this much sadness.
Maybe I am not failing.
Maybe I am simply standing
in the middle of a difficult chapter
that refuses to end quickly.
And maybe one day
I will look back at this version of me
the sleepless, overwhelmed, hurting me
and realize
she was stronger
than she ever knew.
