Altar Built From Absence

They talk a lot of noise, like it fills the space where understanding should be.

I stayed silent—not because I was owned by their words, but because I no longer bleed into battles I’ve already survived.

There are nights that don’t pass, only transform.

A dark night of the soul isn’t poetry when you’re inside it—it’s alchemy under pressure.

And I learned, quietly, how to turn collapse into continuation.

Loss and grief didn’t just touch me—they rearranged me.

And the absence of witnesses made it sharper, not smaller.

There’s a specific kind of loneliness where even the idea of being held feels fictional.

So when someone asked about Mother’s Day, I didn’t dress the truth up.

I said no.

Not out of rebellion, but recognition—of what was never safe enough to return to.

People assume silence means you’re available to be tested.

As if endurance is invitation.

As if surviving means you didn’t learn where survival ends and self-betrayal begins.

But I learned.

Not everything close to you is safe.

Not every bond is sanctuary.

And sometimes the deepest act of love is not reaching back into what kept you breaking.

Still—cutting people off isn’t always just survival; sometimes it’s a scar doing what it had to do when there were no other tools. Over time, though, healing isn’t only distance. It’s also learning how to decide, with a steadier hand, what deserves access to you now—and what doesn’t.

Because the goal isn’t just to escape what hurt you.

It’s to stop living like hurt is the only architecture you’ve ever known. 🌿🧚🏼