Do not let old wounds become the architects of your tomorrows.
There is a peculiar ache that lingers in the heart, like the scent of a storm long passed, dampening the corners of a soul that once danced freely. Old hurts, those stubborn ghosts of yesterdays we thought we buried, often find a way to return. They speak in silences. In hesitation. In the faint refusal to believe that joy could still belong to us.
But there comes a time when we must learn to lay those ghosts to rest.
To carry pain into the promise of a new beginning is to shadow the sun before it rises. It is to lace fresh bread with bitterness and call it nourishment. The past may have shaped us, but it need not bind us. Each morning is a blank parchment, and we, ink stained and wiser, are given the chance to write again. To forgive the chapters that cracked us open. To trust the light peeking through.
It is no easy thing. The heart remembers. She cradles her bruises like heirlooms, afraid to loosen her grip, lest she forget the lessons etched into her skin. But healing does not mean forgetting. It means choosing not to bleed on hands that did not cut us. It means stepping forward, even if we still limp a little from what came before.
Do not let old wounds become the architects of your tomorrows. You are not beholden to grief forever. And happiness, that tender, shimmering thing, often waits just beyond the fences we built for protection.
Let them fall.
Let the wind carry what no longer serves you. Let joy in, even if your welcome is hesitant. Even if your voice shakes when you say yes to love, to hope, to a beginning not defined by what broke you, but by what now beckons you forward.
