Hear Me Hard

The wheels spun with a stubborn, fevered will—so wild I half-believed they might tear free, leave me stranded to shoulder the road alone. Life never softened its edge; it pressed, it tested, it carved its lessons into bone. And tears—tears were never a currency that bought relief. Still, my mother’s voice moves through the dim chambers of memory, steady as an old drumbeat: “Help yourself. No one’s coming to lift the weight for you. Hear me now—hear me hard.” So I pushed. And pushed again. I learned the rhythm of survival by ear. And here I stand—today, still moving, still breathing, still carrying what refused to be dropped. Still.