She used to wait with quiet grace,
For life to find her rightful place.
For signs to come, for tides to turn,
For someone else to help her learn.
She waited for her turn to speak,
For strength to rise when she felt weak.
She waited till the house was still,
To ask herself what she might feel.
She waited on the weight to fall,
The perfect words, the perfect call.
She waited for the world to see
The girl she locked inside the “me.”
But midlife whispered through the haze,
A softer truth, a kinder phase.
It didn’t knock—it simply stayed,
And showed her how the fire’s made.
She let the timelines go to rest,
The old ideals that once impressed.
No longer bound by “not yet” dreams,
She stitched her life from quiet seams.
She claimed her mornings, claimed her name,
And wore her joy without the shame.
No longer hiding deep within—
She gave herself the space to begin.
The mirror did not lie to her,
It showed the scars, the silver blur.
But what she saw in her own eyes
Was not the need to prove or rise.
It was the peace that follows strife—
The kind that only comes from life.
And in that space, her hope arose—
A garden growing through the throes.
Not blazing loud, not wild and bright,
But glowing like a softer light.
A warmth that hummed beneath her chest—
A knowing: I deserve the rest.
She is no longer holding still
For fate, or time, or someone’s will.
She walks the road, she casts the flame—
No longer waiting to become her name.