The morning light poured in through the sheer curtains of Amina's bedroom, warm and golden like a promise. There was a calm in her chest, the kind that comes after a storm—not because everything was perfect, but because she was no longer pretending.
She had stopped waiting for love to come from outside her. For the first time, she was learning how to give it to herself. Slowly. Gently.
It started with small things.
She made her bed with care, not out of obligation, but because she deserved a space that felt peaceful. She played soft music while she cooked, danced barefoot across her kitchen tiles, and smiled more—even if no one was watching.
She bought herself flowers, just because. Bright yellow sunflowers and blush-pink roses that stood tall in a glass vase on her windowsill.
She no longer saw these gestures as lonely. They were love notes to herself.
Amina still had hard days. She still missed people who had once felt like home. But instead of numbing the ache with overthinking or trying to earn back love, she met the pain with compassion.
One afternoon, she stood in front of the full-length mirror in her hallway. For years, it had been the enemy. A place where her insecurities came alive.
She'd stare at her reflection and think:
Your thighs are too big. Your skin isn't clear. Your arms should be smaller. Your smile is crooked.
But today, something shifted.
She stood taller and looked herself in the eyes.
"You've carried so much," she whispered to her reflection. "And you're still standing."
She touched her cheek, as if comforting an old friend.
"You deserve to feel beautiful—even when no one says it. You deserve kindness—even from yourself."
A single tear slipped down her cheek, but it wasn't from pain. It was release.
Later that week, she started a new ritual: writing affirmations on sticky notes and placing them on her bathroom mirror.
"You are enough, just as you are."
"Your love for yourself is the foundation of everything."
"Your worth is not tied to how others treat you."
At first, it felt silly. But day by day, the words began to feel true.
One Saturday morning, Amina met Lani at the open mic. The little café buzzed with energy—people clutching notebooks, sipping coffee, and nervously waiting their turn at the mic.
Lani nudged her. "You should read something tonight."
Amina's stomach tightened. "Me?"
"Yeah. You've got something to say. I can feel it."
She hesitated, then reached into her bag and pulled out her journal. She hadn't planned to read, but maybe… maybe this was another kind of healing.
When her name was called, her heart thudded against her ribs. But she walked up, voice shaking, fingers trembling.
And she read:
"There was a time I believed I had to be less to be loved.
Quieter. Smaller. Nicer.
But no more.
I am learning to be the love I always begged for.
I am learning that softness is strength.
That my kindness is not weakness.
That I don't need permission to take up space.
I am learning to love the woman in the mirror.
Even when the world looks away—
She is looking back at me.
And she says,
'I am enough.'"
By the time she finished, the room was quiet in that sacred way, the kind that comes right before applause.
And then, they clapped.
Not because she had performed, but because she had spoken truth.
Afterward, a young woman approached her, eyes shining.
"Thank you," she said. "That… that felt like my life. I needed to hear that."
Amina smiled, her heart full. "Me too."
That night, as she walked home under a sky scattered with stars, she felt a kind of love she'd never known before. It wasn't the high of being chosen or the thrill of someone texting her back.
It was the quiet certainty of belonging—to herself.
It was the peace of knowing that whether someone stayed or left, whether someone loved her or not, she would still be whole.
She climbed into bed, her journal on the nightstand. She didn't need to write much tonight. Just a single sentence.
"This is what it feels like to come home to yourself."