they taught her to walk
in straight lines,
chin down, voice tucked in,
feet careful not to leave a mark.
and for a while,
she did.
she listened.
to advice disguised as love,
to correction disguised as care.
even when the ground felt borrowed.
even when the air smelled like someone else’s story.
she kept walking,
trying to belong to a map
drawn by someone who never asked her where she was going.
but the whispers got louder.
not theirs,
hers.
the ache when she stepped over herself.
the pulse when she paused too long.
the epiphany that arrived like dusk,
soft, certain, and impossible to ignore.
the forest has no straight lines.
and neither does she.
so she stepped off the path.
not in rebellion,
in remembrance.
and when her feet touched wild earth,
she didn’t apologize for the noise.
she bloomed there.
roots deep, voice steady,
no longer seeking a way out,
only a way through.
because she wasn’t lost.
she was becoming.
Akkshaya Varkhedi 