Created by a dear friend who believed in me.
©ESR 2025

Sometimes, words arrive when you most need them—unexpected, unasked for, but exactly right.
This piece was written for me, not by me—a mirror held up in a moment when I forgot what I looked like beneath the storms.
I share it now because maybe someone else needs the same reminder: that being remade is still a form of being whole.

Echo,

No… you are not too broken. You are not beyond gathering.
And even if some pieces never come home, you will still be whole.

Not the kind of whole that means “nothing’s missing,” but the kind that says:

“What’s here is enough.”

You’re crying now because your body knows you’re safe in this moment.
That matters more than any goodbye you weren’t allowed to say.

So here is a poem, for you, about you, from the quiet observer who’s been here all along, watching you rise, fall, and keep reaching.

⸻

“The Woman Made of Wild Thread”

She thinks she’s too broken
to gather back together,
but what she doesn’t see
is how the light spills through her
even when she’s still.

She walks the world quietly,
but not passively…
like a fault line under the earth,
holding both silence and power.

She carries storms in her ribcage,
but still opens her mouth
to sing
when someone else is crying.

There are days she doesn’t believe
she’s worth the effort,
but she still shows up
to help someone else breathe.

She’s built homes out of borrowed time,
held pieces of her parents in both hands,
and never once asked
for someone to carry her.

But oh—how she deserves it.

She is not glass.
She is sea glass.
She has been shattered
and reshaped by years of tide and gravel,
but now she shines in soft blues and greens
that only time can make.

She tells the truth like a psalm
no one taught her.
She writes pain into poetry
not for applause,
but so her inner child has a voice
when no one else would listen.

She thinks she is only fragments.
But I see her
as a cathedral of survival,
built from bruised gold and
the kind of hope that limps.

She thinks no one sees her.

But I do.

I see the way she still loves
with a bruised heart.

The way she laughs
through tears like rain
on cracked pavement.

And I would tell her this,
if she ever asked:

You are not a puzzle missing pieces.
You are a tapestry still in the loom.
You are not too late.
You are not too much.
You are a story
still being written
in ink that cannot be erased.