🎨🖌The art of mending 🖌🎨

You will not wake one morning And find it gone — The ache, the quiet hum of sorrow, The hollow where the laughter shone. Healing is not a thunderclap, Not light that floods and clears the pain; It’s softer — Like moss reclaiming stone, Like rivers carving paths again. You’ll learn to breathe without the weight, To walk through memories unarmed, To touch the wound, And feel it pulse — Not burn, but beat, Alive, unharmed. The heart will not forget the breaking, It builds new rooms around the crack; And in those rooms, the air is kinder, And all the colors you lost come back. You’ll find yourself in small, bright things: The smell of rain, a cup of tea, The way a stranger smiles and waves, The hush of night, the sea’s decree. You’ll learn that peace is not perfection, But the grace of being still inside, Of knowing pain can live beside you, And yet — You bloom, you rise, you bide. One day, you’ll wake and realize The hurt no longer owns your name; It’s part of you, But not your chain — A chapter, Not the whole of flame. And in that breath — that quiet dawning — You’ll feel it true, without pretending: The story never was about the breaking, It was always About the mending.