"There comes a point in a woman’s life when the ground cracks open beneath her, when every certainty she once carried is scattered like leaves in a storm. It is not a gentle unraveling, but a violent shattering—one that leaves her trembling at the edge of everything she’s ever known. The world does not pause to ask if she is ready. It simply demands: “Rise, or be broken.” In that moment, with nothing left to cling to but her own heartbeat, she discovers the fierce necessity of motion. She keeps going not because she is fearless, but because she is given no other choice. The path behind her is gone, the way forward is cloaked in darkness, and the only thing louder than her fear is the quiet insistence of her spirit: move, breathe, survive.

She learns quickly that survival is not a gentle lesson. It is forged in the crucible of adversity, shaped by the relentless pressure of loss and disappointment. Every morning, she wakes to the ache of yesterday’s wounds, every night she whispers the promise of one more sunrise. The world, indifferent and wild, offers her only two fates: to collapse under the weight of her suffering, or to rise above it. With shaking hands and tear-stained cheeks, she chooses the second path, not out of heroism, but out of the ancient, unyielding instinct to endure.

Strength, she discovers, is not something she finds in the bright, easy places. It is carved into her soul in the darkness, etched by heartbreak and loneliness. Each scar becomes a testament—proof that she has survived what should have broken her. People see her wings and marvel at her flight, but they do not see the wounds beneath the feathers, the bruises hidden beneath her smile. Every triumph is built upon the rubble of a hundred silent battles.

She learns to dance with fear, to let it move through her like wind rather than letting it root her to the spot. She listens for the lessons in her trembling, and with each step forward, her courage grows. Fear does not leave her; it becomes the current that lifts her higher, the very force that sharpens her resolve. She does not wait for rescue—she becomes her own salvation, stitching hope from the tattered remnants of her dreams.

Her wings are not born of privilege, not bestowed by luck or circumstance. They are crafted from ashes, grown from the bones of what she has lost. Every time the world tries to bury her, she gathers the stones and builds a foundation. She stands upon the ruins of her old life and sees not just destruction, but the space to begin again. Reinvention becomes her art, resilience her masterpiece.

She has no map, no guiding star—only the quiet certainty that forward is the only way. She learns to trust the wisdom etched into her bones by suffering, to follow the compass of her own intuition when all else fails. In the absence of guidance, she shapes her own path, becomes her own North Star.

The weight of expectation threatens to crush her, the world’s demands pressing down with merciless constancy. But she finds her voice in the cracks of conformity, in the rebellion of authenticity. She speaks her truth, even when her voice shakes, and discovers that her truest power lies in her willingness to be seen as she is—flawed, wounded, magnificent.

Love, too, is both crucible and comfort. She loves deeply, sometimes unwisely, and gives of herself even when it costs her. She learns, through heartbreak, that her worth is not determined by another’s inability to hold her gently. She gathers every shattered piece of her heart, reassembles herself, and discovers she is more whole than she ever believed possible.

She learns to forgive—not just those who have hurt her, but herself. She lets go of the shame and the guilt, the burden of imperfection. She offers herself the grace she so freely gives to others, learning that compassion begins within. Each act of forgiveness is a feather, each moment of grace a gust of wind.

Empathy blooms in the soil of her suffering. Having known pain, she refuses to let another suffer alone. She reaches out with understanding, not with answers, but with presence. Together with other women, she forms a constellation of light in the darkness, each story a lantern on the path.

Joy returns slowly, not as the absence of pain, but as a testament to her ability to rise above it. She celebrates small victories and fleeting moments of peace, allowing herself to dream without apology. Hope, once a fragile thread, becomes a banner she waves in triumph: I am still here.

The world will never know the weight she has carried, the silent battles she has fought, the tears she has cried in secret. But she knows, and she honors every step—the stumbles, the falls, the moments she rose when staying down would have been easier. Her journey is proof that even when given no choice but to endure, a woman can become something unstoppable.

Her wings are not delicate—they are forged from steel and sorrow, burnished by perseverance. They bear the memory of every fall, every rise, every moment she chose to keep going. She is not unscathed, but undefeated.

She keeps going because that is what survivors do. They do not wait for miracles—they create them. They do not fly because they are unafraid—they fly because they have learned to rise, again and again, no matter how many times the world tries to keep them grounded.

Her flight is not chance—it is a triumph wrested from the jaws of despair. Her wings are a legacy of resistance, of hope rebuilt from hopelessness, of love reclaimed from loss. She is living proof: when given no other choice, a woman will always find a way to fly.

This is not just her story, but the story of every woman who has stood at the edge of her own abyss and chosen to leap. She does not ask for easy roads or gentle winds—only for the strength to keep going, the courage to build her wings in the darkness, and the faith to believe that she can, and will, rise.

So when you see her soar, know this: she did not choose her path, but she chose her response. She did not ask for her struggle, but she claimed her strength. She is the fire that refuses to be extinguished, the storm that will not be calmed, the spirit that cannot be broken.

She keeps going because she was given no other choice. It was either fall or fly. And that is how she found her wings—not in spite of her trials, but because of them. In her flight, there is a lesson for us all: the wings we seek are born in the moments when we have no choice but to soar."

-Steve De'lano Garcia