The Fog and the Fire

There are days I feel like I carry a forest in my chest.

Not just the roots of my mother’s voice or the branches of my grandmother’s silence, but the whole wild tangle of what it means to be a woman in a world that asks us to be soft and steel at once.

Being a woman is not a single story. It’s a lineage. A ledger. A ritual.

It’s the way we learn to braid our hair while braiding our grief. It’s the way we speak in code through glances, through gestures, through the quiet power of showing up again and again.

It’s the way we inherit silence and turn it into song.

We are the keepers of stories no one wrote down. We are the echo of every grandmother who ever whispered, “You’re stronger than you think.”

We are the voice that rises even when the world tries to hush us.

And yes, we are tired. But we are also holy. Holy in our rage. Holy in our tenderness. Holy in our refusal to disappear.

To be a woman is to walk through the world with your hands full of keys, of children, of dreams, of scars, and still find a way to open the door.

It’s knowing how to hold space for others while barely holding yourself together. It’s learning to laugh with your mouth closed so no one calls you too loud. It’s crying in the shower, so your strength stays uninterrupted.

It’s being told you’re too much and not enough in the same breath.

It’s being asked to shrink, to soften, to smile, and choosing instead to stand, to speak, to stay.

We are not just surviving.

We are thriving.

We are the ones who remember the names of our ancestors even when the world forgets.

We are the ones who stitch joy into the seams of mourning.

We are the ones who turn broken things into beauty.

We are the ones who know that healing isn’t linear, and neither is power.

Because power isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s the quiet decision to keep going. Sometimes it’s the way we hold each other in the dark. Sometimes it’s the way we say no and mean it.

To be a woman is to be a thousand things at once.

A daughter, a mother, a maker, a mourner.

A firestarter. A peacemaker. A witness. A storm.

It is to carry generations in your bones and still dance.

It is to be told you are fragile and still lift the world.

So, here’s to the women who carry forests. Who speak even when their voices shake.

Who remember even when it hurts. Who rise, not because they’re unbroken, but because they’ve learned how to grow through the cracks.

We are not just here.

We are sacred.

We are the story.