Coming back to life
is not thunder.
It is quiet at first—
a small light
flickering in a long dark room.
It is the slow remembering
of how to breathe deeper,
how to notice the sky again
without looking away.
Like winter soil
holding its secret roots,
something beneath the silence
begins to move.
A heartbeat steadies.
A thought softens.
A closed window
opens to morning air.
You do not become new all at once.
You gather yourself
piece by piece—
a laugh returning,
a hope stretching awake,
a fragile courage
learning how to stand again.
And one day
without realizing when it started,
you feel sunlight on your face
and understand—
you were never truly gone,
only waiting
for the moment
your soul remembered
how to bloom again.
Thank-you for reading,
Brenda Marie
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This is so beautifully delicate, Brenda. I love the quiet strength in it—how you’ve captured recovery not as a dramatic event, but as a series of small, gentle returns. The line about ‘winter soil holding its secret roots’ gave me chills.🌷🤝
Thank you so much for this thoughtful reflection. Your words mean a lot to me. I’m really glad that sense of quiet strength came through—recovery has felt exactly like that to me: not a single turning point, but a slow return of small, living things beneath the surface. I’m especially touched that the line about the winter soil stayed with you. Thank you for reading so closely and for sharing such kindness. 🌷
Thank you Brenda you are always welcome 🌷🤝