There was a time
I knew how to stand,
where to soften my voice,
where to quiet my hands.

How long to hold
a carefully shaped smile,
how to make myself smaller
just to stay for a while.

I called it normal.
I called it trying.

I didn’t yet see
how much I was hiding—
how much of me bent
to keep everything right,
just to steady the room,
just to soften the light.

—

Then something shifted.

Not all at once,
but enough to be felt—
a quiet resistance
my body had held.

It tired of scripts,
of rehearsed lines to say,
of reaching for versions
that kept me in place.

And one day
the script fell away.

—

Now when I’m seen,
I don’t know where to start,
there’s no practiced version,
no role to impart.

No shape to step into,
no mask left to wear—
just this quiet presence,
uncertain, but there.

—

I don’t apologise
for the way that I am,
for the edges that show,
for the parts that don’t plan.

But I will take care
when I miss what is true,
when I falter in ways
that may land onto you.

That part still matters—
to listen, to see,
to hold myself gently
with accountability.

—

I am not here
to be easy to read,
or soften myself
just to meet someone’s need.

I am here
to exist as I am—
without folding myself
to fit into a plan.

—

And for the first time,
with nothing to hide,

that feels like enough
to simply reside.

— Frost ❄️