Mental Health
The Room I Stayed In
I’m sitting in a room I barely recognize. The walls are chipped. The corners hold pieces of me I swear I threw away. Old versions of myself are scattered everywhere— the girl who begged for love, the one who let everything slide, the one who thought she’d never make it out alive. The floor creaks when I breathe. Light sneaks in through the blinds, like it’s been trying to find me this whole time. Dust floats in the air, and I just watch it fall— settling on everything I used to be. I used to think healing meant repainting, making it look brand new, like none of this ever happened. But now I think it’s this: sitting here with all the broken pieces, letting the cracks stay cracks, letting the dust stay dust, letting the flowers push through on their own. There are weeds here too, and memories that still hurt if I touch them. But the room is alive— and maybe that’s what matters. Not making it perfect, but letting it breathe again. So I stay. I stay long enough to hear my own heartbeat, to feel the floor steady beneath me, to know I am safe here. I stay until I believe it.
By Carolina Borges12 months ago in Poets
Becoming Her Mother
The day I found out I had a girl, the world shifted. Suddenly every scar I carried felt like a map I didn’t want her to follow. Every lesson I learned the hard way became a prayer— whispered for her to never have to repeat. Having a girl means holding the mirror twice: once to see yourself, and once to imagine who she’ll become. It means relearning softness, teaching strength, and realizing she’s watching you closer than she’s listening to what you say. I look at her tiny hands and think about all they’ll have to hold— dreams, heartbreak, choices, a thousand tiny versions of herself. And I want to teach her that she doesn’t have to shrink to be loved, that her “no” is a full sentence, that her worth will never be measured by who stays or who leaves. Having a girl is terrifying and holy. It makes me want to guard the world with my bare hands— and also set it on fire so she can walk through without burning. Maybe my job isn’t to protect her from everything. Maybe my job is to stand beside her, to hand her the tools I never had, to remind her that she already carries everything she needs inside of her. And one day, when she’s grown, I hope she looks back at me and sees not a perfect parent, but a flawed human who tried her best to show a little girl how to grow into herself— without apology.
By Carolina Borges12 months ago in Poets
The Woman He Comes Home To
Most days, I measure myself against women who seem to breathe through it — the ones with clean counters, warm dinners, soft voices that never crack. Meanwhile, I’m burning inside the same four walls, trying to look composed with a baby on my hip and a smile that feels rehearsed. I love my husband. God, I love him. But he sees the worst of me — the sharp words, the slammed drawers, the silence that begs to be understood without me saying a thing. He gets what’s left after the world and the baby and my guilt have eaten their share. And I hate that. I hate that my love sometimes sounds like exhaustion, that my warmth comes in pieces, that my laughter feels borrowed. I tell myself it’s just a season — that I’ll find myself again when things settle, when we have our own space, when I sleep through the night, when I stop feeling like I’m failing at something I was made to do. But deep down, I think I just miss myself. The one who used to feel full. The one who didn’t need to smile to prove she was okay.
By Carolina Borges12 months ago in Poets
