Humility

Humility is the absence of war within ourselves.

As I stand in the spice aisle,

frustrated that I don’t know more,

afraid I’ll be seen as ignorant or lesser,

I am reminded that the battles inside me

still rage on

even in the unseen

and unfamiliar parts of myself.

So what do I do?

I fight back.

I stomp my feet.

I pout.

Because in that moment

I am thirteen again—

unheard,

unseen,

disconnected from myself

and from those who were supposed

to teach me my value.

Yet here I stand,

a thirty-one-year-old woman

throwing a fit

in a spice aisle

because I still have work to do.

So I turn.

I face it head on.

And I say, no more.

I console my younger self.

I tell her how smart

and incredible she is.

I soothe my thirty-one-year-old self

and remind her

it is okay not to know everything.

Both of you

are still worthy.

And I apologize

to the man, my sweet love,

holding my hand through it all.

Who extended grace and compassion

when I had none for myself—

who reminded me

we are not throwing fits.

We are healing.

So I own it.

And I move the plot forward.

Just like that.

It isn’t magical.

It isn’t earth-shattering.

But at the end of my day,

I am better

for being seen

in a dark and weak moment,

for being held and loved,

for showing up for myself

and for those who love me.

I always thought growth

would feel larger—

more robust,

more noteworthy.

But it isn’t.

It’s spice aisles

and undercooked pasta.

It’s accepting that my ego and pride,

while once serving a purpose,

do not serve me here.

Vulnerability is my light.

Humility and acceptance

are my vessel.

Forgiveness is my homecoming—

back to who I dare

and dream to be.

Because I am worthy

of this journey.