She told herself she was fine.
That this was just a season — a busy stretch, a rough patch, a chapter she would eventually grow out of.
But seasons turned into years.
And one day she realized the danger wasn’t that she was unhappy…
It was that she couldn’t remember the last time she felt anything fully.
Desire became a memory.
Rest became a luxury.
And hope?
Something she handed out to everyone except herself.
The truth was simple, and heavier than she wanted to admit: When a woman forgets herself long enough… the world stops asking who she really is.
