Dear daughters,

There was a time when the world spoke in verses that did not echo our names. The pages of poetry fluttered with beauty, but none bore the fingerprints of our truth. In those moments, I learned something sacred: silence is not absence—it is an invitation.

So I searched.

I wandered through libraries of longing and archives of ache, hoping to find a poem that mirrored our journey. I held up each stanza like a mirror, asking, Is this us? But the reflections were blurred, the metaphors too distant.

So I wrote.

I dipped my pen into the ink of memory and began to shape verses from our laughter, our scars, our dreams. I wrote through the nights when the words refused to come, through the days when the world said our stories were too quiet to matter.

And when even my own poems faltered—when they failed to carry the weight of our truth—I did not stop.

Because stories like ours do not arrive fully formed. They are carved from persistence, stitched with courage, and sung in voices that refuse to be silenced.

So write, my daughters.

Write when the world forgets you. Write when it remembers you wrongly. Write until your story stands tall among the verses, unshaken and unapologetic.

Write your own story.

And when you do, the world will finally listen—not because it was ready, but because you made it ready. 🙏🏾❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer