FROM ASHES, I ROSE

There’s no soft place to begin a story like mine — no gentle way to ease into the things I’ve seen, lived through, and survived. Pain didn’t knock politely. It barged in, dragged me to the floor, and expected me to stay there. But I didn’t. I’m still not.

I was born into a battlefield disguised as a home. A place where innocence wasn’t protected, where love came with a price, and silence became a survival skill. Abuse wasn’t a moment. It was the air I breathed. Daily. Quietly. Constantly. Silently. I learned from very young how to numb my body, smile with empty eyes, and make sure everyone else was okay while I shattered in private.

But there was one person who made the pain bearable — my little brother. Just a year younger than me, but we were twins in spirit. Best friends. We were bound by something no child should understand: trauma. I tried to protect him. Stepping between him and the pain. Shielding him with my small frame and fierce love. But when he fell sick — a silent sickness no one could stop — all I could do was hold him and whisper a promise I couldn’t keep: “I’ll protect you forever.” A few days later, he was gone. That was the moment everything inside me broke and rebuilt itself. It didn’t just break my heart; it cracked open a lifelong vow inside me: No one else I love will be left unprotected again.

That vow became the blueprint of my life. I’ve been the one who stays. The one who shows up. The one who takes the hit, so others don’t have to. The one who carries too much because letting someone else break felt more unbearable than breaking myself. And I have broken. So many times. And I’ve paid for both — deeply. And yet… I am still here.

I’ve given my heart to people who didn’t know what to do with it. I’ve trusted deeply and been betrayed deeply. I’ve found myself tangled in messes far bigger than I could untangle, trying to help people through darkness that nearly swallowed me whole. I’ve watched people I loved self-destruct. I’ve watched myself unravel. I’ve spent years wondering if maybe I was the problem — too much, too soft, too intense, too willing.

But I’ve also seen beauty. I’ve seen people rise. I’ve seen healing happen in the quietest, most unexpected places. I’ve watched love rebuild what trauma tried to destroy.

There were nights I screamed into a pillow so no one would hear. Nights I held a knife in one hand and hope in the other. Nights I begged God to either rescue me or end it, because the middle ground was unbearable. I don’t say this for pity. I say it because someone needs to know they’re not the only one who’s ever felt that way.

Behind every moment of public strength was a private collapse. Nights I cried so hard I shook. Mornings I had to peel myself off the floor. Days I smiled while bleeding on the inside. No one saw the times I had laid on the floor. Trembling hands. The triggers. The flashbacks. The moments where my only prayer was “Just get me through the next five minutes.” And through it all… I never stopped choosing love. That’s the part most people don’t understand about me.

I don’t love because it’s easy. I love because I know what it feels like to be unloved. I protect because I know what it’s like to need protecting. I stay soft — not because life hasn’t tried to harden me — but because I refuse to become the things that hurt me.

I rose through grief. I rose through betrayal. I rose through disassociation, through screaming silence, through exhaustion so deep it felt like my soul was suffocating.

And now… something has shifted.

I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m healing. Truly. Honestly. For the first time in my life, I’m not rushing toward people hoping they’ll see me. I’m standing in the light I fought so hard to find — and letting others decide if they want to stand beside me.

I’m no longer living in response to what was done to me. I’m living in honour of who I’ve chosen to become.

I’m learning to breathe again. To feel again. To soften. To be held.

I’ve walked through fire, but now I carry light.

I’m no longer hiding in the armour I used to need. I’ve taken off the mask that says “I’m fine.” I’ve stopped shrinking so others can stay comfortable. I’m letting the war quiet so that healing can finally speak louder.

I’m not perfect. I still have scars that ache in the cold. I still have moments where I doubt my worth. I still cry when no one sees. But I’m not lost anymore. I know who I am. And I know that my softness is strength.

I’m not a hero. I never was. I’m just willing.

Willing to keep loving. Willing to stay open. Willing to protect, even when it hurts. Willing to rise. Willing to speak when it would be easier to stay silent. Willing to love even if it costs me. Willing to keep choosing life — not just existence — even when grief claws at my throat and fear whispers lies in the dark.

And maybe that’s what I needed all along — not to be strong, but to be willing.

So, if you’ve stumbled across this post, and you’re tired… aching… wondering if you’ll ever feel whole again — I want you to know this:

You’re still here. Which means your story isn’t over.

It doesn’t matter how much you’ve lost. It doesn’t matter who abandoned you, who lied, who left, who hurt you, or how many times you’ve had to rebuild from scratch. You’re not too far gone. You’re not broken beyond repair. And you are not alone.

You don’t need to be brave. You just need to be willing.
There is life after the pain.
There is light after the collapse.
There is love after the silence.
And from those ashes, you too can rise.

And I still believe — with every scar in my body and every fire I’ve walked through — that from ashes… you, too, can rise.