The Newborn Reed: A Poem on Finding Strength and Resilience

 

The Newborn Reed

Look closely at this map of the heart. 🧭✨

From the top panel—where the seeds of a father’s foundation were first planted and a grandmother’s wisdom waited at the door—to the bottom panel, where the newborn reed walks fully into her own sunlit bloom.

Every step of the track mattered. Every storm made the spine flexible. We are no longer just surviving the weather; we are owning the pavement and thriving in the abundance of our right now.

Before the track began, there was a foundation. A father’s platform, solid and wide, filling my weeks with the heavy timber of building, teaching my hands how to hold a structure, and giving my feet a place to stand before I ever knew the weight of the wind.

Then came the pavement, and the voices upon it. My grandmother’s warning left like a quiet map: “Go, you’ll meet.” A gentle truth whispered into the soil, preparing me for the world beyond the platform, telling me that the road would test the strength of my spine.

And I met it. I met the cold winters of the ex, the heavy spaces where love became a lesson in survival, and the exhausting, workaholic hustle that tried to turn my grace into grit. For a long time, I thought staying strong meant standing like iron against the rain.

But iron rusts, and stone cracks under the weight of the sea. And yesterday cannot hold the rhythm of today.

Look at me now. The sun is up beautifully over the yard. The freezer is full, the neighborhood is coming to the door, and the circle is widening with every rising sun. I am no longer carrying the heavy timber of old walls.

I am the newborn reed.

Born from a father’s foundation, guided by a grandmother’s wisdom, cleared by the closures of yesterday, and swaying beautifully in the St. Lucian breeze.

I do not break. I bend, I adapt, I receive, and I simply breathe.