You Were Never Broken

You were never broken.

You were just trying to survive

this man-made shit show—

this world of ringing bells and fluorescent lights,

of fake smiles, cold hands,

and rules that made no sense to your wild blood.

You were never too much.

They were too small.

Too loud in all the wrong ways.

Too quiet when it mattered.

Too eager to tame what they didn’t understand.

You weren’t lost.

You were pushed.

Out of classrooms, conversations,

into corners where the light couldn’t reach.

You learned to sit still

when your soul needed to run.

You learned to nod

when your gut was screaming.

But your body knew.

It always knew.

It whispered through headaches, through stomach knots,

through the soft ache of longing

every time you saw a dog, a forest, a river.

It told you:

This isn’t right. This isn’t yours.

And somehow—despite it all—

you stayed.

You found life in the dirt.

In pawprints.

In the way the wind moved through trees

without asking permission.

You made a home

out of the spaces that didn’t demand you shrink.

You were never broken.

You were refusing to disappear.

You’re still here.

Still wild.

Still whole.

And they don’t get to rewrite that.