I

I surrender myself—
piece by piece.
Not once—
but again and again, endlessly.

In wordless moments
no one sees...
when I hold my breath
before the knee-jerk response.
In small silent deaths
that don't look like freedom—
but are freedom nonetheless.

I surrender my pride
when someone else's truth
I don't correct to match my own—
though inside, I disagree.

I surrender my fear
when I show up to meetings with shaking hands,
yet still lay my heart bare—
because I know
someone else might need permission to safely fall apart.

I surrender myself
when I admit my pain to another,
though the old me would have
smiled and said, "I'm fine."
But now I know—
what silence costs
when feelings stay locked away.

I surrender control
when I sit in traffic.
And the one who cuts me off—
I don't curse.

When my son tells me
he hates me and never wants to see me again,
I don't take it personally.
Because I know
what it's like to have no words for overwhelming feeling.

I surrender the person
I no longer want to be—
each time I stop explaining myself;
each time I quit
begging for permission to be "enough";
when I realize
the only person who can approve of me
is the one looking back from the mirror!
When I stop—
choosing values over validation.

I surrender myself
when I dive into the past
and don't look away.
When I make room on the couch for grief
without asking when it will leave.
When I sit beside
the boy I left behind.
When I forgive myself
for not being the me
who no longer exists.
When I let joy enter
without checking its pockets first.

None of this is perfect.
None of it is beautiful.
It's all deeply, terrifyingly human.
This is—
watching someone walk away
and not running after them.
This is—
standing in the kitchen
gripping the knife...
until anger dissolves into breath.

These are ordinary moments—
demanding extraordinary courage.
Making the call.
Accepting uncomfortable silence.
Taking responsibility for my actions,
apologizing—
without expecting forgiveness in return.

This is—
releasing every belief and clever notion
I thought would protect me
but only kept me small.

I don't arrive.
I don't transcend.
I keep dying—
daily, bit by bit—
to everything I am not,
letting it all go.

And strangely,
in this quiet shedding
something beautiful is born.
Something rooted, solid, true.
Not a better or worse version of me—
just me,
wordless, without argument.
And that...
that was always enough.