She is a story written in ash and ink, lit by love, and bound by resilience.- Treasurable Life

Daily writing prompt

What’s your favorite thing about yourself?

View all responses

You ever feel like life lit a match and said, “Let’s see if she survives this one”?
Yeah. Me too.

When I saw this image, a rose lying on an open, worn-out book with a half-burned candle beside it I saw myself.
Still blooming.
Still beautiful.
Still open.
But baby, don’t let the petals fool you.
I’ve been through the fire.

This isn’t just an old book, this is my story.
The torn pages? That’s childhood trauma.
The faded ink? Those are the words I couldn’t say.
The rose? That’s me. Growing in the middle of all of it. Still soft. Still red. Still me.

You ask me what my favorite thing about myself is?
It’s not my looks. Not my strength. Not even my ability to make people laugh when I’m dying inside.

It’s the fact that I still love deeply, even after being mishandled.
It’s the fact that I show up tired, bruised, but present.
It’s the fact that I didn’t close the book, even when I begged God to let me.

That candle you see? That’s every moment I was lit up with rage, heartbreak, or exhaustion.
Every breakdown I had in silence.
Every tear I wiped before anyone noticed.

But you know what?

I’m not the flame. I’m the light.
I’m not the ashes. I’m what rises from them.
And I’m learning to love the woman I’ve become, not despite the burns, but because of them.

Look, I’m not about to sit here and act like I’ve always loved myself.
There were days I couldn’t stand me.
Days I judged myself harsher than anyone else ever could.
I’ve said things to myself I wouldn’t say to my worst enemy.

But growth?
Growth is when you can look at your reflection and say:

You’re not perfect. But you’re still here. And honestly, that’s enough.

Sometimes my self-love sounds like a TED Talk.
Other times, it sounds like:
“Girl, go eat. You’re not mad, you’re hungry.”
“Go lie down. You’re not lazy, you’re tired.”
“Stop texting him. You’re not crazy, you’re healing.

Is that I still believe.
In love.
In God.
In purpose.
In new beginnings, even after devastating endings.

I love that I know how to sit in the dark and still find light.
I love that I can be both soft and solid.
I love that I’m still blooming with thorns, with scars, with messy pages and all.

The world will try to convince you that beauty means perfection.
But I’ve found that the most breathtaking things grow from broken soil.

So if you’re like me a rose on worn-out pages, lit by the fire you barely survived
Know this:

You are not your damage.
You are your growth.
You are your bloom after the burn.

Because your truth deserves the page, too.