Meeting Myself

I met both the happiest

and saddest versions of myself last year—

sometimes in the same breath,

sometimes in the same night.

I met the one who laughed freely,

who believed again without checking the cost,

who felt light enough

to imagine a future

that didn’t scare her.

And I met the one

who sat on the floor too long,

who questioned her worth in silence,

who carried grief

like it was part of her anatomy.

They didn’t recognize each other at first.

One wanted to stay.

One wanted to disappear.

Both were tired of pretending

they didn’t exist.

Last year taught me

that joy and sorrow

aren’t opposites—

they’re neighbors.

They borrow from each other,

shape each other,

prove we’re alive in different languages.

I survived by learning this:

I don’t have to choose one version

to be real.

I can hold them both,

thank them both,

and keep moving.

Because meeting myself—

all of me—

was the hardest

and most honest thing

I’ve ever done.