I’m honored to share that five of my poems have been published in the latest issue of Awakenings Review, a journal devoted to mental illness, recovery, and the healing power of art. The featured poems are:

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The Child She Held and Let Go
The Ghost of Who She Was
The Quiet Between Cravings
One Year Without It
The Woman in the Mirror

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This publication means a great deal to me. In emergency and addiction medicine, I see every day the courage it takes to face relapse, rebuild trust, and rediscover self-worth. These poems are for the ones doing that hard and beautiful work. You are not alone.

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Thank you to the editorial team at Awakenings Review for providing space for voices from the edge of healing, and for recognizing the value of stories shaped by recovery and resilience.

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You can read more about Awakenings Review here.

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The Child She Held and Let Go

Her hands were shaking when they placed him in her arms,
so small, so breakable,
his breath barely a whisper against her skin.
She told herself she would do better,
that she would be enough,
that she could quiet the wanting,
that she could keep him safe.

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She lasted three months.
The crying, the exhaustion,
the way her body ached for something
she wasn’t supposed to need anymore.
She wrote his name in the condensation
on the bus window,
let letters fade as the city blurred
past.

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She told herself he was better off without
her.
But some lies settle in your ribs and refuse to leave.

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They do not give second chances
to mothers like her.

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The Ghost of Who She Was

She does not miss the sickness,
not the hollow ache,
not the mornings that began with shaking,
not the nights spent chasing the thing
that never stayed.

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She does not miss the hunger,
not the empty spaces in her ribs,
not the burning behind her eyes,
not the way the world blurred
at the edges of every high.

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But sometimes,
she misses the weightlessness,
the quiet between thoughts,
the way time slipped through her fingers
without asking her to hold it.

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She does not tell anyone
about the dreams.
How she wakes some nights
to the sound of her own breath,
the echo of the past pressing against her ribs,
whispering that it was easier then,
whispering that it would be easier still
if she stopped fighting.

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She sits up,
presses her feet to the floor,
feels the solid ground beneath her.
She does not want to go back.
But she does not yet know
how to move forward
without mourning the woman
she almost became.

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The Quiet Between Cravings

It comes in the spaces she never noticed before.
Between the footsteps on the sidewalk,
between the slow inhale and the exhale that follows,
between the hours that used to disappear.

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At first, the silence was unbearable.
She would pace, she would fidget,
she would reach for something, anything,
to fill the empty space.

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But now, the quiet holds her.
The stillness does not scream.
Her hands rest on her lap, steady.
Her breath does not shake.

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She looks out the window,
watches the street move below,
lets time pass without chasing it,
lets the craving come and go
without following where it leads.

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She does not fill the space.
She lets it be.
And for the first time,
it does not swallow her whole.

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One Year Without It

No cake, no candles, no celebration.
Just another morning
without waking up sick,
without running,
without the old hunger clawing at her ribs.

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She buys herself coffee.
She drinks it slowly,
lets it settle into her
like something she has earned.

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The Woman in the Mirror

She does not look away this time.
Her eyes are clearer.
Her face is fuller.
Her body is hers again.

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She leans in, studies herself.
The past is there,
etched in faint lines,
in shadows beneath her skin.

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But so is the woman
she almost lost.
And the woman she is becoming.

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She runs a hand over her arms,
once marked by needle bruises,
now marked by time, by survival,
by everything she thought
she would never have again.

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She opens the window
lets in the morning light.

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It does not burn.
It does not accuse.

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It simply says:
You are still here.

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You are still here.

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And for today,
that is enough.