I wake before the sun,

heart pounding like a warning drum,

mind spinning through shadows

that stretch longer than the day.

Coffee in my hand, but it tastes like ash,

and the world feels too loud,

too bright, too heavy.

A siren wails.

A car backfires.

A voice yells somewhere behind a door.

And suddenly I’m not here.

I’m back there.

The smell, the sound, the fear—

they all come rushing

like a river I cannot dam.

I remember everything

and nothing at once.

A touch on my shoulder makes me flinch.

A memory creeps in,

soft and silent,

and then it screams.

My body reacts

before my mind can catch up.

I try to speak,

but the words feel wrong,

like they belong to someone else.

I smile anyway,

because people don’t see the storm

swirling in my chest.

They don’t see my fingers shake

as I try to hold myself together.

Night comes,

but sleep is a stranger.

Nightmares invade

like uninvited guests,

replaying every fear,

every loss,

every scream I thought I buried.

I wake sweating,

heart racing,

grateful it’s not real—

but knowing the memory

is never far.

I fight with anger,

with silence,

with tears that won’t fall when I want them to.

I lash out at shadows,

at strangers,

at loved ones,

because my body remembers battles

my mind can’t explain.

And still, I survive.

I take a breath.

I open a window.

I step outside.

I reach for help,

for someone who can anchor me

when the ground feels like it’s gone.

I remind myself

that I am more than this pain,

more than the echoes in my head,

more than the moments I fear.

I find hope in fragments:

a song, a sunrise,

a quiet word, a hand held.

I stitch together my days

with small victories

because survival is not a moment—it’s a thousand little choices.

I learn to sit with the memories,

to let them exist without letting them own me.

I learn to breathe through the panic,

to name the fear,

to tell it, “You do not define me.”

I am not broken.

I am fractured,

but fractures reflect light.

I am scarred,

but scars tell stories of survival.

I am tired,

but I keep walking.

I am afraid,

but I keep breathing.

Even when the past comes roaring back,

I remind myself:

I am still here.

I am still me.

And every day I fight,

I reclaim a piece

of the life PTSD tried to take.

I am living,

not just existing.

I am healing,

not just surviving.

I am human,

and that is enough.