I am not broken glass to be stepped lightly around. I am not a thin layer of ice that shatters at a single touch. I am iron. I am steel. Forged in fire, strong and resilient.
But even iron rusts. Even steel bends. Swords need sharpening and armor needs repair.
And as I fight my demons day after day, there comes a time when I must retreat if I am to see another battle. Iron rusts. Steel bends. Armor falls into disrepair.
I want to believe, and I do, that I am confident, brave, brilliant, and anything else I am told I am. But there are times when it all collapses and I am certain that it’s all a facade, behind which is nothing but a tortured soul in a ridiculous hat.
And I worry that perhaps I have only been made for common use: at worst a stumbling block, at best someone else’s stepping stone, never to truly triumph.
But then I remember: those who bear the worst scars are the ones who fight on the front lines.
So in my moments of defeat, I will not surrender. Do not pull me ahead, do not push me from behind. Pick up your sword and shield, and fight alongside me.
I am not fragile. I do not require protection. I am a soldier, I am a warrior, and my scars are an account of each time my enemies have tried and failed to destroy me.
I am iron. I am steel.
