I am grateful for so many things now
that even my silence has started keeping a list.
For the mornings that did not ask me to explain myself.
For the doors that closed with terrible manners
and accidentally gave me privacy.
For the people who underestimated me
with such commitment,
they became part of my curriculum.
Thank you.
I mean that with clean hands,
good posture,
and a little sass.
I have learned that gratitude is not always soft.
Sometimes it enters the room in heels,
sets down its bag,
and says, “We are not discussing that again.”
I am grateful for the long road,
for the left turns,
for the rooms where I was too much,
too bright,
too certain,
too alive
for the furniture.
I am grateful for the almosts,
the not-quites,
the men who confused access with intimacy,
the friends who vanished
When I become required applause
They did not know how to give.
Bless them anyway.
May their mirrors be honest
and their coffee be strong.
I am not looking back.
Not because the past has no meaning,
But because I have already paid it
in breath, in bone, in beautiful years
I had no business surviving
and still somehow did.
There comes a moment
When a woman must stop turning around
to see who followed her out of the fire.
There comes a moment
When she must understand
The smoke was proof,
not a residence.
So I move forward now
with class,
with grace,
I carry my gratitude like fine jewelry,
opening it only when needed,
checking my face,
remembering who I am.
I am grateful for the ancestors
who kept their names lit inside my mouth.
For water,
for prayer,
for the stubborn little comedy of hope.
For every room I entered, I was afraid
and left nameless.
For every “no”
That was secretly a limousine
sent by God
to take me somewhere better.
I am grateful for my own nerve.
For the way I kept writing
even when life had the audacity
to interrupt the sentence.
For the way I kept loving
without letting love make a fool of my crown.
For the way I kept becoming
even when becoming required
a private funeral
for the version of me-
She was sweet.
I bless her.
But she cannot come with me.
Ahead of me,
the road is not easy.
It is simply mine.
And I intend to walk it
like a woman who knows
that elegance is not the absence of battle,
But the refusal
to let battle
be the whole biography.
So yes,
I am grateful.
Not delicate-grateful.
Not performative-grateful.
Not the kind of grateful
that smiles through a wound,
so no one feels uncomfortable.
I am grateful for discernment.
Grateful for memory.
Grateful for boundaries
sharp enough to cut ribbon.
I am grateful
because I am still here,
still soft where it matters,
still dangerous where it counts,
still laughing at the nerve of heaven
for making me wait this long
to meet myself this fully.
And no,
I am not looking back.
I have already given the past
its flowers,
its footnotes,
and no forwarding address.
Now I am walking onward,
dressed in grace,
perfumed with love,
carrying a future
that has finally learned
how to say my name poetically–
Copyright © 2026 Sherley Delia | All rights reserved.
Healing Majestically 