When Storms Wear Calendars
Some days exhaust the body.
Others exhaust the soul.
Last few months wave been the second kind.
The world did not bruise me with blows — it buried me in paper.
Pages stacked on pages. Deadlines breathing down my neck.
Systems that move slowly when justice is urgent,
and urgently when justice is inconvenient.
I have learned something in this season of life:
Physical labor makes you tired.
Mental warfare makes you ancient.
There is a special fatigue that comes from being unheard.
From speaking into rooms lined with marble and indifference.
From watching truth crawl while bureaucracy flies.
Ink has become heavier than stone.
By nightfall, my hands were steady —
but my mind was bruised.
And yet, here I am.
Still standing.
Still writing.
Still refusing to disappear quietly.
They underestimate the kind of woman who survives paperwork,
patience, and power at the same time.
Storms do not announce themselves as storms.
Sometimes they arrive disguised as calendars, clerks, and closed offices.
But even storms pass.
And I am still here.
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