Every time I sleep,
I’m afraid my bones will snap—
not because I’m weak,
but because I’ve already survived things
that should’ve buried me.
Vulnerability?
That’s never been soft for me.
It’s been danger.
It’s been impact.
It’s been a warning sign I learned how to ignore.
But I still stand.
I walk as a child of God—
a woman of God—
and I don’t say that lightly.
Because I’ve been in places
where faith was the only thing
holding me together.
Fearless?
No.
I’m just done pretending
that fear gets to decide who I become.
My walls are thick.
Not for show—
for survival.
You can smell the trauma on me if you get close enough.
It lives in my tone.
In my silence.
In the way I don’t explain myself twice anymore.
But listen—
I am healed.
And healed doesn’t mean untouched.
It means I stopped letting people
rewrite my pain like it’s an invitation.
You don’t get access to me
just because you’re curious.
You don’t get to disappear into my life.
I am not that version anymore.
So if you’re searching for her—
the one who tolerated less,
the one who stayed quiet,
the one who accepted damage as normal—
keep looking.
She doesn’t live here.
And when the dust settles—
when the noise dies down—
when it’s just me and my thoughts—
that’s where the real war used to be.
Now?
That’s where I make my choice.
Hold onto the old pain like it defines me…
or shift the energy and become something different.
Something stronger.
Something aligned.
Something covered.
Because without God in me—
I’m just surviving.
But with Him?
I move different.
I think different.
I don’t beg for space—I take it.
This circle I protect?
It’s small.
Not everybody gets access.
Not everybody deserves proximity.
And I give it everything I’ve got—
because I’ve learned
that not everyone deserves my full energy.
I’ve run on broken bones.
Literally and mentally.
I’ve shown up broken
and still carried the weight.
So don’t test my resilience.
Don’t mistake my calm
for something you can break.
Because what you’re seeing now
isn’t weakness getting softer—
it’s strength
that finally stopped apologizing.
So I’ll ask you again—
what does courage mean to you?
Because for me…
it’s not pretty.
It’s not quiet.
It’s survival that decided to fight back.
It’s trauma that turned into testimony.
It’s pain that learned how to walk
with its head held high.
And it’s me—
still standing.
I Am Katrina 03/27/2026
