I will fight with fortitude, with the kind of strength that bends but does not break.
Last night, I lay with the ache of tears that would not fall. That kind of ache is a heaviness, sitting just beneath the skin, pressing against the heart, waiting for release. Morning found me the same way, though I had hoped sleep would wash it clean. But some feelings refuse to be forgotten. They settle deep, stubborn as roots, and demand to be faced.
There is a battle waging within me, fierce and unrelenting. One side suggests surrender. Of letting go, not from peace but from exhaustion. The other side demands the fight, the grind, the slow, painful climb toward something better. It is not always a noble battle, though it is necessary. Survival does not always come with grand speeches or victorious songs. Sometimes it comes with clenched fists, breath held tight, and the decision to rise one more time.
I think about what it means to fight. Not with violence, but with resolve. With a steady hand and a stubborn heart. Fighting for what I want. Fighting to feel whole. Fighting because there is a life I still hope to shape with these hands, with this worn and weary soul. The tears, though they linger beneath the surface, are not weakness. They are proof of the struggle. They are proof that I still feel, that I still care. That I am still here.
So I choose to fight. Not because it is easy, but because it is necessary. Because there is something in me that refuses to let go, that believes in what I cannot yet see. I will fight with fortitude, with the kind of strength that bends but does not break. And when the day ends, whether I stand tall or crawl into the dusk, I will know that I did not surrender.
Not today.
