You were quiet, then,
moving carefully,
weighing each step,
as if the world might vanish
if you rushed.
You wondered
if you were enough
for all that waited beyond.
The world pressed in—
too many voices, too many eyes
asking too much.
Expectations stacked like river stones.
To keep your softest self unseen,
you built the wall—
every pebble a name you didn’t speak,
every silence a shield
from the storm that never asked your name
from the noise of everything unkind
from the hands that didn’t hold gently
from the loud, lawless wild.
Now, I see you—
still fierce, still feeling,
burning with bloom,
but your tears speak in thunder,
your aching now a tempest
screaming overhead,
shattering the sky.
You meet the world
a pillar of fire,
guarding soft earth
beneath.
Know this, constant gardener,
even the wildest garden
needs sunlight,
needs rain,
needs the courage
to let the wind in.
No– you are not small.
You are the gardener
and the bloom,
the hands that shape,
the heart that dares to open.
Let your wall be a gate,
not a fortress.
Let the world in,
a little at a time.
Trust that you are strong enough
to weather the storms,
to root yourself deeper,
to grow wild
and beautiful
in the open air.
Not the size of the world,
but the size of your heart
as it dares
to hold it
open.
With all your courage,
remember, and be ready.