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Measure the time it takes to revamp what was torn separated in seconds. Degree the fetched of forgiveness—not in money, but in pride gulped, in wounds revived, in hush broken fair to form peace once more.
Measure this: the feeling in your chest when somebody says they're glad of you and you really accept it. The goosebumps that come when your title is talked with adore, not out of commitment but out of unadulterated love. Degree the chill of forlornness at 3 a.m., and the warmth of somebody recollecting your favorite melody at 3 p.m.
Measure the seconds between “I adore you” and “I'm leaving.” Degree the space between what we feel and what we say. There's continuously a crevice, continuously something cleared out inferred, a truth cleared out unmeasured since words now and then do not extend distant sufficient.
Can you degree how numerous times you needed to donate up but didn't? Can you number the evenings you rested with questions and woke up with strength?
Measure the minutes you chuckled as well difficult and overlooked the torment. Degree how numerous times you've stood back up—bruised, split, but still standing. Degree the fire that still burns in you, indeed when the world tries to snuff it out.
And on the off chance that they inquire for verification of your quality, do not appear them trophies or titles. Point to your pulse, still unfaltering in spite of the chaos. Point to your scars—they're not despicable, they're the ink of your survival.
So go ahead. Measure this.
Measure the calm continuance. The persistent trust. The tenacious conviction that something superior holds up fair around the twist.
You'll not have numbers. But you've got prove.
You're still here.
Which , my companion, says more than any scale ever might.
