December arrives with a ledger and a mirror.
It does not ask permission.
It asks for truth.
This is the month that pulls receipts from the soul—
what survived, what burned,
What nearly broke you,
and what dared to rise anyway.
December is not gentle.
She is honest.
She sharpens her memory and says,
Look again. You are still here.
They placed their bets quietly at first.
A raised brow.
A whisper dressed as concern.
The polite curiosity of people
waiting for gravity to finish the job.
They thought the weight would be too much for me.
They thought pressure meant collapse.
They misunderstood the assignment.
I am not built like that.
I come from women
who lit fires and called it survival,
who wore grace like armor
and laughter like strategy.
I am my grandmother’s child—
which means I don’t simply endure storms.
I collect them.
They are birds.
Ordinary.
Startled by the first crack of thunder,
scattering at the faintest threat,
confusing noise for power.
They fly low
and panic quickly.
I, on the other hand,
burn.
I burn and return.
I burn and remember.
I burn and rise—
with better posture, clearer skin,
and a glow that suggests
This was never meant to kill me.
There is a particular satisfaction
in a comeback no one saw coming—
In re-entering the room
unannounced, undefeated,
It looks like rest and rebellion had a child.
I relish it, yes.
Not out of vanity,
but accuracy.
Because what they call luckIt
is actually legacy.
What they call recovery
It is actually a ritual.
What they call resilience
It’s simply me honoring the women
who stood before me and said,
We do not stay down.
This new version of me—
She is not louder.
She is truer.
She does not explain herself.
She evaluates, releases, and refines.
She understands that December is not an ending
but a coronation.
I celebrate her now.
The woman who survived being underestimated,
misread, and strategically tested.
The woman who learned that a collapse
is only fatal if you refuse the fire.
So let them watch.
Let them wonder.
Let them recalibrate their predictions.
The phoenix has never needed applause.
She rises because it is her nature.
And when she does,
she looks better than ever—
not in spite of the flames,
But because of them.
After all,
I am my grandmother’s child.
And fire recognizes its own–
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