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.