Before I Forget

Before I forget,
let me say this plain,
without metaphor,
without armor.

I have loved people who could not love me back.
I have waited for words that never came.
I have silenced myself in rooms where I should have roared.
And I have carried wounds like heirlooms,
polishing them until they gleamed like pride.

Before I forget,
I want to remember the weight of that silence—
how it sat in my throat like a stone
and taught me to speak only when it was safe.

I want to remember how many times I mistook survival for destiny.
How many times I wore pain like purpose.
How many times I became the wall,
just to keep others from crumbling.

But also—
before I forget—
I want to remember the light.

The tenderness of my daughters’ laughter
echoing down a hallway I built from nothing.
The mornings I rose even when my body said no.
The friends who stayed.
The healing I did in secret,
so my children wouldn’t inherit my ghosts.

I want to remember that I chose this path
not because it was easy,
but because I refused to die in a story
that was never mine.

So let this be my offering:
If I forget anything,
let it be the lies.
Let it be the shame.
Let it be the names they called me
before I remembered my own.

And if you are also remembering,
know that it’s okay.
The universe will show you the way.
You are beautiful.
You matter.
You are.

Remember—
so that we won’t be forgotten.