Tenacious.
Not loud.
Not forceful.
Not the kind that needs to prove itself.
But the kind that stays.
I am tenacious in the way I sit with discomfort
and don’t rush it to be anything other than it is.
In the way I return, again and again
to the parts of me that once felt too much,
too tender,
too complex to hold.
There is strength in that kind of returning.
Like roots beneath the surface,
I grow where I am not always seen
quietly finding nourishment,
quietly expanding,
trusting that something is shifting
even when it looks still.
I don’t rush my healing.
I enter it.
I listen.
Softer, not weaker.
I allow old and new parts of me
to meet,
to resist,
to integrate
until something more whole begins to take shape.
Sometimes my tenacity looks like movement.
Sometimes it looks like rest.
Sometimes it is a boundary that says,
this is where I choose myself.
For me, tenacity isn’t force.
It’s relationship.
With my past.
With my body.
With the deeper intelligence that knows
when to hold on
and when to let go.
I hold structure in one hand
and something unnameable in the other,
allowing both to guide me.
I am not here to push through life.
I am here to stay with it
fully, honestly
until it becomes something new.
And that kind of tenacity
doesn’t harden me.
It deepens me.
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