The Phoenix Quill: Words Born of Fire, Inked in Truth

Before my mind believed I could heal,
my hands did—
not because I was whole,
but because they refused to stop trying.

They reached for warm things—
the morning mug,
the soft fur of the one who loves me without question,
the curtain pulled open
to let the day in,
even when I wasn’t sure I wanted it.

My hands remembered sunlight
even on the days my heart felt heavy
and unwilling.
They remembered gentleness
in a world that hadn’t always been gentle.
They remembered the motions of living
while I was still learning
how to stay.

Healing did not arrive in a single moment.
It does not live in a finish line.
Some wounds never close the way we wish—
they soften,
they quiet,
but they do not disappear.

So my hands do the work
my heart is still practicing:
gathering the pieces,
steadying the trembling,
carrying the weight that memory leaves behind.

Every day they reach again—
not because I am healed,
but because I am healing.
Because choosing light
is sometimes the only way
to keep from going dark.

This is how I rise now:
imperfect,
unfinished,
still touched by ache—
but with hands that keep moving
toward the light
even on the days
I am not sure I can.

— Samantha Syrnich