January did not arrive gently.
It came carrying the echo of a heartbreak that was not new,
only louder for being confirmed.
A reminder of my worth,
measured clumsily
in someone else’s hands.

January held me anyway.
Held me while I watched the world continue
from a bedroom window—
light shifting, neighbours moving,
life refusing to pause just because I needed it to.

January returned me to small things.
Children recalibrating their joy.
Smiles thawing at their own pace.
The quiet dignity of routines rebuilt
without ceremony.

January introduced me to a version of myself
I thought I had outgrown—
a girl with a spine,
a woman with a heart that heals without bargaining.
An identity no longer arranged around usefulness,
or endurance,
or being needed.

January did not fix me.
It reminded me.

And then, quietly,
January ended in connection.
In laughter that surprised my body.
In a tired sunrise
opening over the harbour—
not triumphant,
just real.

Still here.
Still breathing.
Still mine.