Proud of Me

I used to wait for someone else

to tell me I was doing enough—

like pride only counted

if it came from outside of me.

But I’ve lived too many battles

nobody saw,

survived nights

no one clapped for,

and healed wounds

that never got applause.

So now, being proud

means something different.

It means I don’t need an audience

to honor my effort.

It means I can look in the mirror—

tired, messy, scarred—

and say,

“You didn’t quit.

That’s worth something.”

I’m proud of the way I keep breathing

even when it feels like drowning.

Proud of the things I had to unlearn

just to stay alive.

Proud of the softness I never let the world steal,

even when it tried.

Pride, to me,

isn’t perfection.

It’s proof.

Proof that I’m still here,

still trying,

still building a life

I don’t want to escape from.

And maybe nobody else sees it,

maybe nobody else says it—

but I do.

And that’s enough now.

That counts.

I’m proud of me.

And that’s the first voice I’m choosing to believe.