She grows light

There are women

Who survive the fire

And there are women

Who learn to carry it

Like a lantern.

She buried bruises

Beneath long sleeves

And planted roses anyway.

She learned

That hands meant for hurting

Could never understand

Hands made for healing.

Now her garden blooms

Like rebellion.

Lavender at the fence line.

Sunflowers taller than fear.

Tomatoes ripening

Under a sky she finally trusts.

And somewhere

Behind prison walls

Lives the ghost

Of a man who mistook kindness

For weakness.

But she—

She became roots.

Deep enough

To survive winter.

Wise enough

To know that bitterness

Poisons the soil.

Women arrive at her door now

With trembling voices

And suitcase hearts.

And she says:

“Sit down, honey.

You’re safe here.”

Then she teaches them

How to grow basil.

How to file paperwork.

How to laugh again.

How to stop apologizing

For surviving.

She is not loud about her strength.

But watch closely—

Even storms

Go around her now.

Because she is no longer

The woman who almost died.

She is the woman

Who grows light

From broken things.