She stopped mistaking their hunger for her worth. The world had always preferred her as an outline: the brave survivor, the comeback queen, the body they could praise or punish on command. Owning the pen meant refusing those tidy arcs. She began telling the stories that didn’t trend well—the fatigue that clung for weeks, the grief that made grocery aisles unbearable, the rage at doctors who spoke around her instead of to her.
In writing herself whole, she didn’t become softer; she became specific. No longer a symbol, she was a person with inconvenient needs and unruly hope. The crown lost its power when she set it down and picked up language instead. Her life stopped being a performance for strangers and turned into a long, deliberate yes to herself—a daily decision to occupy every inch of her body, scars and all, without apology.
