Where do these WINDS come from.. They are blowing They are showing they carry an echo one that I've heard before one that carries A darkness combined with a sense. A sense of comfort. The wind carries your voice. Letting me know, know That it is OK, to breathe to grieve. To laugh to remember. the happy To be angry WANT To fight the world.. To be bold.

She smiled, for the First time in many years. As She sits and writes about about the beautiful Days, that she's always feared. She faces them on mended wings and angels, guiding her. She fears no more. She is comforted by those that soar. She finds herself at the Crossroads from before the storm. and who she is becoming. She lets the music, speak to her soul Every beat never skipping. Just flowing, fluid. Never did she know, know. That this Was her happy. Lxx

You don't know me... As I am today. Only as I once was. You don't know what... It took me to get here The war in my head You don't know the... battles I've fought to get here. You don't know the... Strength it takes to face each day. You don't know when... it will be when You see me again. You don't know... My story Or I yours.

I didn’t plan it. That’s how I know it was real. Crying had always been something I managed— contained, timed, redirected. A private maintenance ritual. Something done in bathrooms, in cars, with the door locked and the face composed before returning to the world. That day, none of that happened. The tears came without asking permission. Without warning. Without the usual calculation of who might see and what it might cost me. My body moved faster than my habits. Faster than the training that said hold it together, fear makes you less credible, emotion is something you clean up after. I remember thinking, briefly, This is going to change how I’m seen. And then realizing— something in me was already done protecting that version of myself. No one rushed to fix it. No one looked away. The room didn’t collapse. It stayed… ordinary. That surprised me more than the tears. I had always believed exposure was dangerous. That once seen, I’d lose leverage. Authority. Ground. But the opposite happened. Nothing was taken from me. Nothing dissolved. What disappeared was the effort. The effort of holding my breath through life. The effort of making strength visible instead of letting it be felt. I cried without hiding it, and something older than pride settled in my chest. Relief, maybe. Or recognition. “Jesus wept.” (John 11:35) Two words. No explanation. No apology. No lesson wrapped around it. Just witness. He didn’t justify the tears. Didn’t spiritualize them. Didn’t wait until He was alone. He let grief be seen— and the world did not end. Neither did I. That was the first time I understood that composure is not the same as strength, and vulnerability isn’t collapse. Sometimes it’s permission. To stop performing survival. To let the body tell the truth the mouth was never taught how to say. I didn’t cry to be understood. I cried because hiding had finally stopped working. And for the first time, I stayed.