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| Image / Hamid Tajik |
The Quiet Return
There was a time I walked on shards—
each step a whisper of the past,
echoes clawing at my ribs,
a storm behind a smiling mask.
My foundation was shaken,
cracked by hands I couldn't stop,
by words that burrowed deep and cold,
like winter never meant to stop.
Time, with quiet fingers, sews
the fabric torn by younger pain.
And in the stillness, something grows—
a fragile root beneath the rain.
I learned to speak in softer tones
to the small, afraid-in-me,
to hold her hand through shadowed rooms,
and teach her what it means to be free.
Now dawn comes in gentler hues,
and breath no longer bears a fight.
I carry scars like ancient runes—
not curses now, but signs of light.
There’s strength in every trembling truth,
in tears I no longer deny.
And though the past still hums beneath,
I stand today. I don’t ask why.
Healing isn't clean or fast,
nor does it mean we must forget.
But I have walked through fire and ash—
I am rising. Not there yet—
but rising,
nonetheless.
Carol Anne Johnson is in her mid-40s. She is blind and was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder and complex PTSD. She is also a survivor of child abuse. She enjoys writing poetry and reading, walking, and volunteering. You can follow her on her blog, http://therapybits.com/.
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