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©2025 Samantha Syrnich

She doesn’t try to draw the world to her—
it simply comes,
recognizing something in her
that feels like safety after chaos,
like warmth after too many cold years.

The air shifts when she walks,
not out of awe,
but out of recognition—
as if it remembers her grief,
her prayers whispered into dark rooms,
her stubborn,
impossible hope
that refused to die
even when everything else tried to.

There is a scent she carries—
not cedar or honey,
but truth.
Hard truth.
Soft truth.
The kind survivors wear
when they’ve been broken
and rebuilt themselves anyway.

Animals notice her first—
the way she quiets storms,
the way her hands hold
more gentleness than she ever received.
They sense her heart like a beacon,
steady and ancient,
somehow still beating with love
after all it has endured.

She moves differently now—
not rushed,
not apologizing for taking space.
She moves with the solemn grace
of someone who has learned
to rise slowly from ashes
so she doesn’t startle her own wings.

And the light…
the light folds around her,
not because she chases it,
but because it remembers
who carried it
in her ribcage
when no one else could.

Wherever she goes,
the world brightens by a shade—
as if even the broken places
want to try again
because she did.

This is her gift:
not perfection,
not ease,
but the way light
seems to learn her name
and choose her
every single day.

— Samantha Syrnich