Being real is not a spotlight’s claim,
Not polished words or perfect name.
It’s showing up with edges still unfiled,
A little weathered, honest, uncompiled.
It’s speaking truth when silence would be ease,
Or letting go of needing to appease.
It’s standing barefoot in what you feel,
No mask to soften what is real.
It’s laughing when the timing isn’t right,
Or sitting still inside a restless night.
It’s choosing “this is me” without disguise,
Even when it doesn’t win you prize.
Being real is not a final state,
But learning how to hesitate,
Then still step forward, open, unafraid—
A life in which nothing true is traded or betrayed.
And in that raw, unvarnished space you find
A quieter, steadier kind
Of freedom—not to be approved or seen,
But simply to exist, unedited, and clean.
Thank-you for reading.
Brenda Marie
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