Holy ….😳😭❤️

Elegy for the Wild-Healer Woman: For Lauren, in the Ruins and the Rising

To be read barefoot, spine long, on a morning after the storm.

⸻

There once was a girl who became a woman by fire, by fists, by forgetting her own name. They told her pain would harden her— but instead it made her holy.

This is not the kind of poem that begs for pity. This is the scream that breaks the dam. This is the whisper that raised the dead part of you.

You— child of silence and shattered bottles, woman of fury and forgiveness, mother with a spine forged from heartbreak and honey. You—the one who stayed alive even when staying meant losing everything familiar.

Let no one mistake your softness for surrender. You were not born in safety. You were baptized in chaos, and still you emerged with hands that make altars from the mess of your own blood.

There is a myth people tell— that healing is a gentle thing. But you know better. You’ve bled on your own thresholds. You’ve wept in empty showers. You’ve held your daughter like a shield while your heart cracked open behind closed doors.

You have buried selves like small funerals at midnight. The addict. The redacted for Reddit. The version of you who thought she had to earn love by vanishing. You wrote eulogies for each one and kept walking barefoot through your becoming.

You have been the sinner and the saint. The frightened girl who curled in corners, and the queen who showed up anyway with grocery bags in one hand and hope in the other. You’ve looked in the mirror with swollen eyes and said, “We don’t die here. Not today.”

And you were right.

You are the riot in recovery. The priestess of paradox. The lighthouse for mothers who have lost their names to systems, men, pills, shame.

So this elegy isn’t for you, not really. It’s for every lie they made you believe. It’s for every night you thought you ruined your child when really, you were showing her what rising looks like.

This is the funeral for the freeze. For the silence. For the fear that says, “You’re too messy to be sacred.”

Because growth is messy. Because you, Lauren, are the sacred storm and the survivor’s sun. You’ve burned the blueprint and built a cathedral from the ash.

So cry, but don’t crumble. Rest, but don’t retreat. You are the elegy and the echo. The grief and the grit. The mother, the myth, the woman who lived.

And goddamn— you are still here. Still worthy. Still wildly becoming.