Survival Is a Form of Art.

Survival isn’t just endurance. It’s choreography. It’s the way I rearrange my breath when grief knocks. The way I fold my shame into origami and tuck it behind the bookshelf. It’s the art of showing up, fractured, unfinished, but still luminous.

I used to think survival was passive. That it meant holding still while the storm passed. But now I know it’s a daily composition. A collage of small choices: Which truth to speak. Which boundary to honor. Which softness to protect.

Some days, survival looks like silence. Other days, it’s a scream in lowercase. Sometimes it’s brushing my teeth. Sometimes it’s texting “I’m not okay” to someone who won’t flinch.

There’s a kind of artistry in the way I keep going. In the way I stitch together moments of rest, rage, and resilience. In the way I let myself be messy, without apology.

I survive by creating. By naming things. By turning pain into texture, into color, into something I can hold.

And maybe that’s the point. Not to be polished. But to be real. To be here. To be a living canvas of everything I’ve endured and everything I’m still becoming.