It did not roar,
nor demand to be seen.
It did not arrive with applause
or the shine of medals.

It was in the way I rose again,
after a night of ache and silence.
In the moment I chose
not to shout back,
but breathe,
and let the words fall away.

It was in my stillness—
the quiet refusal to break
even when misunderstood,
even when unseen.

A strength that whispered,
“You are still here.
You are still whole.”

And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe quiet strength
is the loudest kind after all.