The weight pressed down.
Shame wrapped its chains tight.
Doubt whispered in the dark.
I bent.
I broke.
I wobbled like a lone leaf in a storm,
like pasta forgotten in a sad, lukewarm pot—
soft, flimsy, almost giving up.

I Paused. I looked up.

Then I lifted.
Slowly.
Step by step, inch by inch.
Each burden became muscle.
Each tear ignited a spark.
Even my metaphorical noodles began to dance,
coiled and resilient, ready for the heat.

 “I am free!”
 “I am free!”

I rise.
I carry my own power.
I twist, I turn, I coil into strength.
I am more than fear.
I am more than doubt.

And yes…
my spaghetti noodles are perfectly al dente now.
Firm. Flexible. Unstoppable.