There was a time my mind felt shuttered,
glass fogged with storms I couldn’t name.
Shadows pressed against the panes,
and every breath was a brittle sound.
But healing is quiet work—
a slow polishing of the window,
letting in slivers of sky
until the whole horizon opens wide.
Now, light does not burn, it warms.
The air tastes like beginnings.
I see myself not as broken,
but as someone still unfolding.
Through this window into my thoughts,
you’ll find not perfection,
but resilience:
a garden that grew from stone,
a heart that dares to bloom again.
Therapy Bits 
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