I have crawled through the broken streets,

through the nights that would not end,

through the silence that mocked my name

like it was something unworthy of love.

I have bent beneath the weight,

felt my ribs crack under the burden,

watched the sky close its doors

when I begged for light.

But I am still here.

Not because the world was kind,

not because the road was smooth,

but because I learned to keep walking

even when my legs shook,

even when my hands bled.

The mountain did not move for me.

I climbed it anyway.

And when I reached the top,

there was no applause,

no parade,

only the quiet understanding

that I had made it—

and that was enough.