Chapter 1
Hard Ground & Roots
I dug deep where the earth was rough, holding my own weight before I held theirs.
The earth I started in was dry and hard,
rock‑strewn and rough, where hope was thin and scarred.
I knelt there young, with nothing but my name,
and learned too soon that trust is not the same
as safety — that the hands I leaned on most
would turn away, or lie, or make me ghost.
No rain came soft to soften what I bore;
I had to dig where no one dug before.
Down past the stones, through layers of old pain,
I wove my roots where broken bits remain —
twisted them tight, made them strong and deep,
so I could stand while others fell asleep.
They judged my silence, called my edges sharp,
not knowing how the soil had torn my heart.
But every bruise became a knot below,
a hold that let me grow where winds would blow.
I drank my tears when skies refused to pour,
fed my own life from what I had at core.
Now deep beneath the weight I carry still,
my tangled roots keep every promise still:
to hold my ground, to rise when days are tough,
to make of hardship something good enough —
a steady base, a hidden, faithful power,
that feeds the golden bloom I wear each hour.