In the quiet echo of a year gone by, I found myself at the edge of existence, lost in the depths of my own demise. It was a death unannounced, a departure without fanfare or farewell, a silence born of shame and the weight of unforgiven yesterdays. I drowned in the abyss of my own creation, fragmented by the weight of my own truths and the collapse of my lies.

Desperate and devoid of hope, I surrendered to the void, carving myself into pieces with the sharp edges of my own mistakes. I died with a whisper, a pauper’s silence, burdened by the chains of my own Pandora’s box. It was a death I hadn’t planned, an illness I didn’t intend to heal from, a life left unfulfilled.

And yet, in the same breath, I found myself reborn. Like a woman always late, I emerged with the promise of tomorrow, carrying the weight of my recurring rebirth. I faced my fears, shattered illusions, and embraced the shadows of my own existence. I made peace with lucidity, allowing myself to reflect in the mirror and be someone new.

I celebrate the anniversary of my death, not in mourning, but in recognition of the life I now possess. For I have learned that every day, I die a little, shedding the weight of the past to live better, to live more authentically. I am reborn not because it is easy, but because it is the only way forward, the only escape from the chains of my own undoing. I am reborn, not to stay dead, but to live, to thrive, to embrace the fullness of my existence.

And so, I mark this day not as a reminder of loss, but as a celebration of life, of resilience, and of the unyielding spirit within me. Today, I know that in dying a little each day, I am truly living, and that is a gift I will cherish, and a promise I will keep.

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer