It Is Not How Heavy You Lift

11/4/2026

Even the mountains
have places where they have broken.

now there is music
in a room before sunrise,
and you have come
to claim some ground.

no audience.
no permission.

first, empty hands.
a slow step,
then another.

you are learning the distance
between what you remember
and what you can do today.

there will be pauses.

take them
without laying your courage down.

then come back to the movement,
patient enough
to notice what changes:

a longer stretch of dancing,
a pause you no longer need,
the end of a song
arriving before you expected it.

let the hour be a horizon,
not a command.

you have lived under
enough commands.

later, small dumbbells
rest in your palms.

you move them carefully,
learning their pull,
keeping your footing.

when you are ready,
a little more weight.
nothing to throw around.
nothing to impress the room.

this is the quiet part
of being a warrior:

paying attention.
refusing the reckless charge.
keeping enough of yourself
to return tomorrow.

some mornings
you will feel weak.

some mornings
you will mourn the years
that will not be returned.

let the music play
beside that grief.

you do not have to become cheerful
to begin.

and you do not have to make
an enemy of your body.

she was there
through every terrible year.

she brought you here.

work with her.

make room for the movement
you once loved,
and the movement
you have yet to learn.

when a pause is no longer needed,
leave it behind.

when one is needed,
take it without shame.

you are not training
to disappear.

you are taking back
the right to occupy your life—

feet planted,
eyes lifted,
the morning light
finding you still here,

a woman
with her own name,
her own strength to tend,

and the next song
already beginning.

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