I am a woman who has had to be stronger than she ever wanted to be. A woman who left an entire life behind in another country and started again with almost nothing familiar. Who learned a language spoken in only one small corner of the world, just to build a place for herself in it. Who misses family celebrations, birthdays, ordinary dinners, and all those little moments that will never happen twice. Who sometimes cries at night because missing home is a kind of pain that never truly leaves. I am a mother. A happy mother. A woman who has discovered a love greater than anything she has ever known, and who still tries to become a better version of herself every single day. I am afraid of so many things. But I act anyway. I am fragile to the bone, yet I have learned to wear armor so convincingly that sometimes even I forget what lives underneath it. I am the woman who rarely asks for help, even when she desperately needs someone to hold her. A warrior who never wanted a war. Someone who still chooses to see the good in people, even after being hurt. Who smiles. Who loves. Who dreams. Who creates. Who keeps building something without always knowing what it is supposed to become. And perhaps the hardest part is that I am all of these women at once. Strong and exhausted. Brave and terrified. Independent and longing to be held. A mother, an artist, a daughter, a woman still trying to find her way home. I don’t know exactly what I am becoming. But I know how much it has taken to get here. And I am still here. Still soft. Still fighting. Still becoming.