They dismantled everything I built. Not with fire or fury, but with silence, exclusion, and quiet sabotage. My work was claimed without credit. My ideas repackaged without acknowledgment. My voice—once vibrant and clear—was drowned out by louder, more acceptable ones. And slowly, they chipped away at my sense of worth, until I began to question whether I had any left.
But here’s what they didn’t count on: I was never just my output. I was never just the applause. I was never just the version of me they found convenient.
They took my work—but not the fire that created it. They took my worth—but not the truth I carry. They took my voice—but not the will to speak again.
I rebuilt myself from the wreckage. Not all at once. Not with grand gestures. But with quiet, stubborn acts of reclamation. I wrote again. I spoke again. I dared to believe again. And each time I did, I stitched back a piece of myself they tried to tear away.
Because the will to rise isn’t something you can steal. It’s forged in the dark. It’s born in the silence. It’s shaped by every moment you choose not to quit.
I am not the version of me they buried. I am the version they feared would rise.
So I speak now—not for revenge, but for remembrance. For every person who’s been erased, overlooked, or rewritten. For every voice that’s been silenced but still sings in the shadows.
