You saw me before I remembered
how to see myself.
Held a small lantern to the bruise-colored corners
where I kept my doubt folded like old letters,
unread but heavy.
You asked for faith
and offered your own first
like a steady hand over trembling waters.
Somehow,
I learned to breathe again in that reflection.
Thank you
for choosing the hard road with me,
the one paved with slow truths
and the kind of lessons that sting
before they ever set you free.
For guiding me past the ghosts
of who I was told to be,
toward the heartbeat of who I actually am.
Thank you
for standing in the murky grounds
where others only saw inconvenience.
Where impatience tried to prune me
before I bloomed.
Where belittlement echoed louder
than my courage on most days.
You stayed long enough
to peel back the surface,
to witness what ticks,
what trembles,
what survives.
And in that rare quiet
between your faith and my becoming,
I found something I never thought I’d earn—
a second chance
wrapped in the warmth
of being truly seen.