.jpg)
She went to war in ways no one saw.
No one taken note the fight seething behind her eyes when she grinned. No one knew the way her hands trembled beneath the table, how she clenched her clench hands in quiet fair to remain grounded. It wasn't approximately weapons or borders—it was around remaining lively in a world that made her address in case she was ever sufficient.
She went to war each day she ventured exterior and imagined to be fine. She battled against recollections that pulled her back, considerations that attempted to persuade her that recuperating was out of reach. She fought the voice in her head that said, “You're as well broken,” “too late,” “too remote gone.”
And however, she got up.
She went to war for her more youthful self—the young lady who didn't know how to say no, who gave as well much, who remained as well long. She battled for the lady she was getting to be, for the peace that still felt remote in her chest. Each tear she wiped absent in isolation, each restless night she persevered without complaint, each time she chose to undertake again—that was a triumph.
She didn't have an armed force. There were no banners, no walking boots, no national song of devotion. Fair coarseness. Fair confidence. Fair the refusal to stopped.
And possibly she wasn't uproarious almost it. Perhaps she didn't compose almost her battle in posts or lyrics. Perhaps she didn't indeed tell anybody. But that doesn't make it less genuine.
Since war, genuine war, happens within the soul—where no one can see the blood but you.
She went to war. And she is still here.
Still standing. Still mending. Still delicate, after everything.
And in case that isn't control, what is?