By: Manal Rabiey
Every time I fell, life held me with a needle — not to patch me up,
but to stitch a new layer of awareness into my soul.
I never understood why maturity hurt so much,
until I realized it isn’t gifted… it is sewn.
Piece by piece, stitch by stitch, slowly,
with a heart wide open to ache.
I was that girl who believed that goodness was enough,
that kindness never gets betrayed.
But I stumbled into those who saw light only to mock it,
who cut the thread halfway without goodbye —
as if they had never been part of the dream.
With every disappointment, a stitch pierced my heart,
awakening something long asleep,
revealing masks I once mistook for faces.
The first wound taught me caution.
The second built a boundary.
The third became my mirror.
I saw myself stripped of all illusions —
stronger than I thought, truer than I was — and I walked on, unafraid.
I no longer fear pain.
I see it now as a hidden needle, tailoring a cloak fit for me —
not too loose to hide my sorrow,
nor too tight to suffocate my emotions.
It is the cloak of maturity…
heavy at times, but warm, familiar, and mine.
It shields me from the cold of betrayal.
I wear a new skin now — one that won’t peel away,
with eyes that don’t shut to truth,
and a heart that knows wounds are not endings…
but beginnings of deeper understanding,
and a wisdom no price can buy.
