Surviving Success

Success began as a small, bright thing—
a sticker pressed to soft skin,
a crayon sun too large for the page,
a voice calling from the doorway saying “GOOD JOB,”
like the first taste of sugar on the tongue.

I learned early how to gather approval
like shells along a shoreline,
each one whispering “KEEP GOING, KEEP GOING,”
until the pockets sagged and the tide of wanting.

Adolescence sharpened the edges of gold,
grades cut like shards of glass in the mouth,
dreams stretched thin as gum pulled too far between fingers.

I ran...

Into degrees, into careers, into vows spoken
like contracts signed beneath bright chandeliers.
Work rose around me, a scaffold of steel and expectation,
each rung humming with urgency,
each step upward stealing breath from the lungs.

Children arrived like sudden stars,
beautiful, demanding constellations to navigate,
their needs blooming like ivy over every quiet hour.
I fed them abundance, warm as bread from an endless oven,
but watched humility slip through their hands
like water they never had to thirst for.

Now the harvest is heavy, almost unliftable,
rooms filled with polished proof of arrival,
yet my body hums with a different inventory:
fatigue pooled deep as winter lakes,
nerves flickering like faulty wiring in a house built too fast,

lived in too hard.

They call it resilience, this continuing,
but it feels like carrying a beautiful burden
that has learned to thrust me back.

So I loosen my grip on the shine of it all,
let silence reclaim what applause once claimed,
and place one quiet kindness into the wide, unseen currents,
a gesture simple as a cup of water offered freely.
In that small giving, something steadies,
and I understand at last:
to survive success is not to display it,
but to soften it into grace,
and leave behind not proof,
but mercy.