To the One Still Fighting

I won’t call you broken—

not in the way people mean it,

like you’re something

to be written off.

I see you.

Not just the hands that shake,

not just the nights that blur,

not just the stories

people whisper

when you leave the room.

I see the part of you

that keeps waking up

even when it hurts.

The part

that knows this isn’t who you are

but doesn’t know

how to get back

to where you were.

Because it’s not just the substance—

it’s what it quiets,

what it softens,

what it keeps from spilling over

when everything inside you

feels too loud.

You didn’t choose this

the way they think you did.

You chose relief.

You chose a moment

where the noise stopped.

And it stayed longer

than you meant it to.

But listen—

the fact that you’re still here

means something.

The fact that you’re still feeling

anything at all

means it hasn’t taken

everything from you.

I’m not going to tell you

it’s easy.

I’m not going to promise

you’ll wake up one day

and it’s gone.

But I will say this—

you are not beyond

finding your way back.

Not because you haven’t fallen,

not because you’ve been perfect—

but because something in you

hasn’t given up yet.

And sometimes

that small, stubborn part

is enough

to carry you

one step closer

to breathing

without needing

to disappear first.