I planted my vision in silence,
not because I was afraid,
but because the soil of stillness
is richer than applause.
No trumpets, no declarations—
only the quiet hum of my ancestors
whispering in my ear,
“Child, keep moving.
The roots grow deeper in the dark.”
And so I did.
I carried my work like a secret jewel,
polishing it in the midnight hours,
tucking it away from wandering eyes
until it gleamed enough to blind the sun.
Now it stands before me, alive,
breathing, radiant, undeniable.
And I laugh—oh, I laugh—
because this joy is too good to be staged.
It is a private standing ovation,
the kind you give yourself
when the mirror nods back in approval.
To my ancestors:
Thank you for your silence and your songs,
for the prayers you tucked into my bones,
for reminding me that patience is a power,
and laughter is a crown.
To myself:
Congratulations.
For moving like water,
for dancing with shadows,
for knowing when to hush
and when to holler.
I celebrate with poise, with love, with elegance—
and with just enough humor
to say: look at me now,
doing exactly what you knew I would.
Silent work,
loud harvest.
This is the beauty of becoming–
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