Some women are made of steel, stones, tears, dust, bones and scars.
Others are made of books, music, rainfall, stardust, moonlight, flowers, daydreams and wild adventures.
The rare ones are made of both.
Their hearts are graveyards and gardens all at once — mourning what’s lost, blooming what’s next.
They are not defined by what hurt them, nor only by what saves them — but by how they hold both in the same breath.
They are memory and possibility, pain and anthem.
And when they walk, the earth remembers every woman who ever dared to become more than what the world expected.
Others are made of books, music, rainfall, stardust, moonlight, flowers, daydreams and wild adventures.
The rare ones are made of both.
Their hearts are graveyards and gardens all at once — mourning what’s lost, blooming what’s next.
They are not defined by what hurt them, nor only by what saves them — but by how they hold both in the same breath.
They are memory and possibility, pain and anthem.
And when they walk, the earth remembers every woman who ever dared to become more than what the world expected.
